REMEMBER

In the shape of the skull lies womanhood, a mere clay form of repetition.

Word after word taken from the mud below, from the echoes of the coffins and the ashes. The teenage girl born a sacrificial lamb, the mothers in my family, the girl child born yesterday: who’s to say they're not mere twins of each other? Imitation after imitation. Mouth to shut up, hands to hold one’s own, legs to spread and give, give, give until they give out on their own, until they fall. Mind open with rage and concussions after trying to hit the door multiple times to get out. You’d think womanhood is fingertips reaching to pollen-filled air amidst the sunflower field, but it's like living in a body with bruises. They try to hold your hand, to soothe you. But you have to run away before the pain hits. I was born waiting for my end.

 In my dream the other night, my hands were filled with henna, ants running over. I saw my grandmother frantically trying to cover my sister up, clothing after clothing, as if she’s repulsed by her form. We are mere bodies, grandma. Here for the pleasure of others. Like the bee sting every flower suffers, we are reminded everyday: you are beautiful but not your whole, you are strength, but not your bones, not your muscle. Comparison after comparison. Today I am a flower, tomorrow a god, yet I can't get out at night without one hand on my ankle and one on my hair. These handprints, these thievings, these broken skulls, it gets too tiring.

I was born waiting for my end.