I didn’t think pain could be particular
until I was cut with these shards of a broken mirror,
one that I felt more willing to shatter than to look
into
to see how good it feels, to know exactly where
the scars lie and how they got there.
It never occurred to me that a face so close to mine
could end up as art on my bedroom wall.
Was it the understanding of burden
that comes from the unbearable lightness of
having a wordless father,
or from knowing the silence felt by your own songs
sung only in the language foreign to your mother?
What’s the point of
a mask of lifelong inadequacy, a voice
of timid words, a skin too afraid to scar
but hides hundreds underneath. And why
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