Joy is a new dress I haven’t had the courage to put on yet
ITSH
I woke up in a pool of grief, at some point it wasn’t new to me.
I splash my face in a mirror I can face now without looking away, without turning my face down.
I grew power in the cracks of broken bones, I told myself, “There’s good soil under broken homes.”
There is no narrative for me, my path was etched into a landscape that was not expecting company.
I looked for stories to relate to and found nothing,
Statuesque I felt convinced my chest contained no substance.
If there’s no precedent for girls like me who make it long,
what was I to hold onto when my head shrouded up with fog?
I took it as a sign that I was just a flawed design.
Maybe I was onto something when I treat myself unkind.
But there’s no length that I can stray where I outrun the day.
Every bruise and every mark is proof I’m tough to move.
I have become the harshest critic that exists,
and yet I survive my own fists, and I still wake, and I persist.
And once I’ve gone down every list of differences, and days I wish I didn’t exist,
all that remains is my bright hair and these blue eyes and what I write.
The grip of fear around my neck will let up, I will make it sweat.
Those who doubt and those who gawk are powerless to stop what’s next.