Your lips spit out words like a fully loaded gun firing at full speed
my tongue can taste the blood on my lips from those remarks
melting into the mold, shaping, folding myself smaller and smaller
but the mirror still distorts, distorts and distorts my reflection
the overlapping of scarred flesh cries with crimson.
I held oceans between my collar bones with the pressure releasing
numbers are etched into my flesh
this is the ritual
Tradition
momma always had a scale in the bathroom
my brown eyes were always scared to see the number.
In grade 4 we were measured, weighed and photographed.
The girls and boys were painted with smiles
and joyful cheeks radiating the red of roses
as I held on tightly to my card with the
three big numbers stood out with caution
in bold print to my brown gnarled eyes,
the blonde girls were skinny
with their barbie thighs and golden hair shimmering in the classroom.
When the chaos comes
all must be forgotten
from the bones that were scratching the skin
my young hands would touch my stomach
with disgust plastering my face
pinching the excess skin that was not supposed to be there like the magazine said.
My body was a canvas
while I let it disappear with numbers and sadness crammed in my throat
scratching nails upon the interior of my arms
bruising my legs with purple and back
Mia, Ana, E.D,
they are silently soothing with
murmurs that are musical to only my muted eardrums. I’m not a canvas
nor a piece of art
but skin destroyed by blades and ideals
perfectionism and sister’s lost weight and the remarks
the remarks
the remarks
they hurl themselves against my skull with their
cupping hands with pressure to the prey
I am a spill
that no one wants to clean up.
The stains have been left and unattended to,
Collecting years of dust
Over time.