mending

You don’t see me. Your lips dip into mine, hands hold my body, but not me. You only reach for the shell of me. The outer layer that you believe represents me, not seeing the way it claws at me. You feverishly blow away pieces of me. You refuse to hear my whispers, my breaths, my cries. Instead, asking with your eyes to touch me.

You call me Baby.

The flowers you gave me withered away — along with your claims of love for me. I widened my eyes to you, asking you to look at me: not just the illustration of my body. Instead, you imagined me away. Putting a shadow over me that darkened the brightness of me.

My being began to vanish. I sat still as I watched my essence and divinity leave me, trapping me in an unrecognizable body. But somehow a sliver of warmth remained in me. Escaping when touched correctly. I longed for the warmth to engulf my body, but it refused. I then knew I had no other choice but to walk away from you.

I rest in the sun,

allowing the warmth to take over me.

To mend the wounds that you delicately scattered all over my body.

I bloom now,

watching as the beauty of me explodes out vivaciously.

Amid all the brightness rising in me,

I finally can see me.

Written by Avery Russell

Edited by Keyatta Brooks (she/her)