DISCLAIMER: THIS POEM IS PART OF MY NEWEST FORM OF POETRY THAT I CALL CUT OUT POETRY. I TAKE OLD BOOKS IN MY HOME AND CUT OUT WORDS TO CREATE A POEM. PLEASE ENJOY.

She never wanted to bleed or hold children

That's the problem, isn't it?

Something distilled from mothers into daughters about how

To love nouns: plants, broken objects

Into people who can love us back.

There's dirt in her mouth, birds in our throats, frenzied and tumbling, zipped up stitches, blood spilling -

A lifetime of lace and losing breath.

They're scared that little girls will become boys

A slamming door in the wind

She feels lost and afraid that her life as it is will never be what she hoped for

Awake on the interstate

Sweet speedometer

Broken pieces

Society's burden

The loudest wanting

Falling through the cracks

Families broken

Plans shattered

What do you do when all you want is a home?

God gave me a family of strangers and if I was born to be silent, then why did God give me a voice?

Hallelujah matters!

I could have replied "Fuck you!"

Instead, they recall the sacrifice, cajoling on the surface: "this is for your own good"

Phosphorescent gods, portraitors of drowning skies, of bleeding potential

There is no safety here

Because no one can tell me why a blood-bound family across the city forgot my name.

But, I am never alone. Held in this moving room with these strangers who are my family now.

I do not want to have to defend things like inclusiveness, acceptance, empathy, and basic human rights, but -

True love is nurtured in rot and the hardest lesson to learn for daughters like us?

Sometimes, the kindest thing sheers can do is cut.

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