Cold tile, legs Indian style,
Two hands holding one head
as I reflect on all the ways I
wish I could change myself.
Thick thighs that have always touched;
Stretch marks that extend longer than
my ambition;
An Italian *** that threatens to take over
my five foot of frame.
And then one night she calls me and says "Sis, I wish I could be a model like you…"
And stomach twists and falls in my gut,
as I struggle to find the words to tell her she's perfect just as she is.
Stumbling speech
matched with an unfiltered tongue.
A laugh that will break eardrums and hard hearts.
She says "Sis, maybe one day you can teach me
to read so I can go to college,"
while she tightens the Velcro that holds her
21 year old feet still,
because she never quite understood
where the bunny went.
See she’s what the doctors calls mentally *******;
genetically martyred to die in a society that tells her
she's imperfect.
And now here she is,
my sister, my reflection on
cold tile with legs Indian style;
Her two hands holding one head,
Reflecting on all the ways
she wishes could change herself
to be pretty normal like me...
And I ask myself, what have I taught her?
