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water of the womb
November 13, 2013
I laugh louder than I should,
my spirit is restless,
and my tongue is too sharp.
I am not like the
women in my family.
They know when to let go,
I have not yet learned to forgive.
They recoil when they are hurt,
my spine only snaps straighter.
They swallow their insults,
I throw mine like knives.
When they wish to be pretty
I would rather be mean.
They kneel at the altars of men,
I am my own god.
I worship myself.
My body is the altar.
Every breath a sacred prayer,
an unwritten scripture.
© Andrew M., Apple Valley, MN
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