I was not born a girl
But my mother never agreed with me
So she dressed me up in fancy smiles
And hung my legs
On the arms of the pot-belled man on a rod
‘He will protect you’
The first time he gave me a hand,
He gave me a rod
He said I was a child who needed to be taught
To wear her pants,
A few inches above her heels
Bent over on the sad bed.
Perhaps the black hole in my eyes
Is the first color of protection
Or the new tattoos
Down my spine
Are the sacred ruins of my virginity
I think mother
Forgot to scribe my name in my palm,
Explains why my reflection
Half broken, half skinned
So on this day,
When the sky turned blue
And my hands failed to touch her ray
I sort peace in the arm of a dying rose
Maybe she leaves
Her petal for me on the sun,
A message for mother.
Peace is naked,
Yet dressed in the strangers arm
Mother always said it was a sin to look at her,
That patient is a woman’s virtue.
But, I am in love
With the curves on her lips
And the touch in her smile.
Peace, be mine!