i can cry in my mothers arms, 

lamenting my broken face. 

our crooked brow. 

the nape of my neck.

i can sweat out a feeling. 

i can sweat out the ugly. 

 

i was born with a predisposition for hate.

borne from man, 

borne from hate.

born with black eyes. 

 

im supposed to cry into my mothers neck whilst she

remembers what it was like before it all. 

she waits for the days i take ill. 

everyone knows what position to take 

when i tell them of my cracked lips and swollen lips.

and painted lips.

 

i found a pocket of love within me 

let it feed.

i let it rot and fester

until it blossomed.

and still i feel as though my weeping days are not yet past.

i am very confused.