Was I made from a broken mold?
I don’t like how visibly the cracks stretch
From my breasts to my hips
How eroded my feet have become
From trudging as the vessel I am
Holds an accumulation of sorrow and guilt
For the generations before me.
I’ve emptied out of most of my soil from my journeys
Yet jet black vines coil out of the dirtiest of corners
I cannot even speak as my mouth has betrayed me
Selling out my mother tongue for whitewashed aesthetics.
Each day as I wake, a new shard of me is lying on the floor
It is getting increasingly hard to remember how to put myself back together again
Someone once asked me if I needed help
I declined their pitiful charade
I don’t want my pieces stolen.