When I first learn the shape of
my mother’s bone-thin hands,
I am four
and crumpled in the corner like origami.
She tells me to hit back,
women can’t be weak in this world like twisted knives.
She must teach me to hold my head high,
even with both eyes blackened.
This is living, she says,
I promise, I will never lie to you.
This is how I learn to use my fists before my words,
kick the boys rather than kiss them.
I was not taught to be gentle,
in my family of bleeding mouths and blinded eyes.
I was a warrior since age four, a memorial
to all the girls who never learned no,
mordant and messy.
My mother taught me that love is a game.
Leave it to the boys –
we’re here for a fight.
This is how I learn that we live to die. —

Origami | d.a.s

NaPoWriMo day 12: knowledge

(via backshelfpoet)