I don't carve letters I rip the skin, peel again and again until I bleed. Sticky red water drops form mini scabs self-inflicted little wounds each finger only fingers more and more. Skin heals quickly noticeable growth in nail bed, but again and again I tear pull yank back my own flesh and side of nails more than ever yet on the rare occasion when they are painted I leave them alone. Dry skin calls out little flaps easy to grab harder to stop refrain mame. It can be excitement under the table at a restaurant as a friend is sharing stories emotions and I return tales time time time to be energetic or to be the way I am supposed to be or am. At least three fingers on each hand are blackboards of naked words you can't see the sentence says I am on edge I like to hurt the first peel feels gooood exhilarating necessary little to no damage done Then a bit more then who the fuck cares I do. Lotion and soften filing the nails and rest...
Made for you, like you, my mother. Made to be of service through my voice, my expression, my passion. Made for you, we learned to sustain love thrive through loss, reach the deepest knowing of self. I watched you discover your personal beauty, through poetry presentations your clothing choices what to wear today, totem color chakras, you brought out your inner rainbow. I was made for you to be here and behold beauty and love from the very beginning. Since my birth, I saw your delivery of gusto in daily movement across sidewalks to classrooms. I witnessed your passionate voice the comfort in being near you in your work as a teacher performer, artist mother, wife. I was made for you to learn and at the same time thrive in my own garden beside yours. Made for you, I feel you encourage my beauty, my quiet curious desire to mingle and know more, to reach the top of the mountain. I travel at home inside my apartment inside my town my community ...
The little girl with straight blonde hair at the edge of the rocks What is the little girl looking for? I notice she could fall The possibility of it No one is watching but me A man, likely her dad, is holding a baby walking slowly around the top of the hill How did she climb down to the edge of the rocks? Is she 8? I was 22 that day I saw her Where does the girl belong? The girl belongs everywhere I see secureness in her She is steady in that spot looking out at the never-ending lake of possibilities heep of rocks jutting up behind her danger of how to crawl over the jagged edges how to get back to her family and go somewhere else I saw myself in her I took the photograph of her in 1999 a piece for my final exhibit in a journalism class last semester of my journey at NMSU The image was captured on the nikon camera i did not take care of the one where i developed all of my own photos in the dark room telling Sterling, my professor, about the end of my parents' marriag...
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