I do not struggle as you pluck me up by the nape of my neck like I am so small, setting me so gently, down, into your mortarâ I just wonderâ who are you to press me down and grind me up, to crush until Iâm only these bits and parts of me? To pull from my insides the things you love/ the things you like and hide the rest like scrap all down the sink?
Building me anew from all the pieces and all your lessons and all your words of who you think that I should be?
Iâd ask you this, of course, if mine own mouth you had kept, not simply built me one brand new with your calloused crafty hands,
but also Who am I to let you get away with doing this? Who was I to let you just remake me?















