My parents say I was a pretty babyPeople had turned back and staredPraised them for making;A beautiful baby girl Soon School turned the praise to tauntsAnd Home turned the taunts to cracksI get the smell of zinca familiar metallic taste The blood dries on a crumpled tissueI drop the blade I used.I carry abandoned cities in my ribsAbused borders on my thighs I look at myself in the mirrorI’ve turned my face into a riotMy hands are a civil warIn between my knuckles are small coloniesAs rich in culture that castes me out I hold myself at night as I rock myself to sleepTelling myself no man will love me.After all, what man wants to lie in bed and watch…
Bruises
