|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
|
a space for youth writing on mental health & identity
|
![]() Your name is very pretty. Mama, what does it mean? Beauty. You are lucky to be born so beautiful. You’re not thinking about the baby
girls abandoned in plash-stained wicker caskets under overcast skies frowning on sunless roadsides, orphanage shores flood like monsoons. There is no recollection before this. How do you cry for a mother that does not want you? when the orphanages plump them up like fat hens barely enough to hide glass ribs jutting under ashen skin, eyes aghast quiver like fishhooks over stillness waterfalls of Caucasian bodies and courters inspect and poke and want to take one home. Girls: the root of troubles, wellsprings of insatiable calamity. Us flighty poplars age like yellowed pearls, soon to be wandering in discarded red light districts. Again. Listen— this beauty and its demure flesh and melted blooms is not for me. It’s for husbands and swindlers, the dogmatic and the selfish. The girls who came before were pretty and they were only girls who survived. Comments are closed.
|
Categories
All
* = Editors' Choice work
Unless otherwise noted, all pictures used are open-source images in the public domain. Archives
September 2023
|