I cannot escape you, mother. You’ve left me with your sister who regards me with the same cowardice and lack of warmth you nearly killed me with. Her mind closes shut so easily, my words confuse her. I tried to establish boundaries. She had never heard of the term before. You hadn’t either. She drifted towards reading over documents and cleaning while I spoke, avoiding eye contact, as if ignoring me would make me disappear. You did the very same.
I am blessed and cursed with a broken mind, but her- she is a broken vase no gold can repair, for your sister, mother, rejects it. It’s a subject of great terror- that of change- to her. To repair oneself is impossible, a horror so terrible she never speaks of it. You too feared gold, mother, but your cracks glisten with it now, and I know it’s only because of me.
I’m afraid of her. She reminds me of who you were before the gold. She will never know the joys of understanding fear, of repairing oneself with the glistening stuff that is empathy, bravery and passion.

You are sick. Please get well.
I worry about you, but most of all, I am selfish with the desire to run away from your sister. Your sister, who is only the you I could not escape.

I am tired of you. Come back.


—L, *Letters I know you can’t hold

you are splitting me open like
a ripe pomegranate
my back arching beneath you
I am nothing but you
(and come and go and here and upside down)
you say your chest feels like it is exploding
and smile at me half naked in a sweatshirt
sinking into nothingness (everything)
you are garganta do diabo
(my eight year old self feeling a breath of
endlessness for the first time)
and Utah Beach and Mumbai at night
where I am breathless (breathless)
(I am raw here)
twisting my throat splitting
me open like I have never closed up.

I’m 5’9”, loud and strong. 

I’ve got big hair, perfect brows and a straight back.

I radiate confidence, sexuality and metaphorical ***** as my curvy hourglass figure walks with purpose down the street.

My attitude says “There’s nothing I can not do.”

My eyes say “You wanna fight? I’m ready.”

To them, I’m a lioness. 

I protect all that is mine — except from myself. 

Behind the facade, I am small. 

Behind my words, I am afraid. 

Behind my sunglasses, my eyes are wet. 

And under my luxury lingerie, I am naked, just like my soul is when I’m writing.

I’m not who they think I am, are you?