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Why do we invest in skin and bones?

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#rupikaur

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I Have My Ma’s Eyes

Remember when you would piano key down my spine until my breathing sounded like whistling chimes, hanging on a door on a hot summer day? Your sweet voice made the chimes come to life in my vivid imagination as the words that rolled off your tongue belonged to a harmonious symphony. What I see now is not the reflection of what dwells in my childhood memory, that is, if she ever existed. Or is my memory betrayed by my longing for chit- chats when I learned to call you Ma and nurture when I could not yet run. You were supposed to be my knee pads when I fell on all fours. You were supposed to be my shield Ma, but go ahead. Break me down with your vulgar words and drag me by my fingertips because I have breasts, the physiognomy of a woman. I rebel and little me asks myself why. And there’s devil- me over there who stands tall on my right shoulder with hands on her wide hips, strutting her love handles, always cheering me on.

I admit that I do not revisit old photographs, not that I have many, because I am simply afraid to return to a trapped state where I was a boy there with a mushroom haircut. How I cried ever time my hair passed the round corners of my ears because you’d tell me that it was time to cut my hair again. All I ever wanted was to swirl around in puffy floral dresses with colorful ribbons in my hair as decorations like all the other little girls. At least then, I satisfied your expectations of a boy. Blame the doctor who didn't know how to read the ultra sound. Blame him for getting your hopes up. If I could only put into words how everyone’s high pitched laughs stung my ears when I told them I was a girl. But you probably wouldn't care anyway. How I yearned to be 13 and 16, but even that wasn’t enough. And here I am. 18. It’s true. your opinions manifest my perception; making me not the best person I know I am capable of being. To the point that I don't blame you for not making me your favorite. Your words cold and sharp. Your touch so foreign. Your scent, non- existent. But your steps are heavy, fearing all. 

One day, I’ll sit the way you want me to, chew the right way, and maybe even be toothpick skinny. Until then, throw the fake China in the pantry as hard as you can so they snap into a million pieces. The lurid words you preach are louder than my cries as I tip- toe, crawl, and fall over the broken pieces you left on the kitchen floor that gently embed themselves in my epidermis. When you’re done, stab the chopsticks into the table as if it was my thumping heart on the knife board to stop the pain. And when you’re satisfied, take a good look at me like you always do. My tears no longer naÏve to believe your forehand would reach out for guidance, helping them sashay down my cheeks. And this time, when you laugh, I hope you know that it is you who you are laughing at because you created the reflection I see everyday in the magic mirror. Why is it that you tell me that the genes you passed down to me are not beautiful. When others tell me I’m perfect I know not to believe them because you must speak the truth because you are my mother. I will shower you with everything I can offer you until I myself have nothing because without your foul words and rough hands, I would never know what genuine happiness smells, feels, and tastes like. You made me realize that I’m not just rainbows and cotton candy; but, I have an inner dragon that breaths fire. 

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