Mother says that tattoos are distasteful –
the idea of marking your skin is unthinkable.
I look at the woman on the train,
Traces of blue and gold running across her arms
Paints her like a goddess preparing for battle.
I’ve never wanted an imprint on my skin more than I do in this moment.
Mother says that scars are blemishes, like acne
on my teenage face.
She fails to notice the difference between the two;
No amount of facial cleanser can clear scars away,
Though I spent hours in the bathroom scrubbing in desperate attempts to do so.
The ugly skin from burns and falls mar me,
But these are my tiger stripes and battle wounds.
They are the relics on my temple of a body.
Mother says that some things in the world
are wrong.
She casts wary glances at the two women
in the store,
Their hands intertwined like they are two celestial beings come together.
She shakes her head and gives them wide berth
as we shop.
The women continue to hold hands,
Both their own Helen of Troy and together
an Aphrodite;
I cannot explain the yearning in my chest.
Mother says that church is for the faithful and
we must attend.
I listen to sermons filled with words of prejudice,
Looking across the pews and seeing only white skin with wrinkles,
As she nods her head along.
This is not where I belong;
Places of worship are not for me,
Especially those with hate in their preaching.
I keep my eyes shut and lips pressed together, waiting for my stomach to stop churning.
Mother says that anger will eventually turn
to peace.
My chest is on fire with pent up rage,
Holding onto control is so hard in a home
of illusion
Where none of us are ourselves and no one
is willing to speak up.
So for now, I hold my tongue and notice
the tattoos, scars, women, and faith
Until I can become a storm and boom
with thunder,
My body crumpling with the release of pressure
And I am free from this cage.