A Mother's Reflection, and: Blank Canvas, Preferably

A Mother's Reflection

Pass it to her before the storms force her inside.Let her hear your criesof joy and love that swarmsand never dies.

Hand her the mirror that reflects your prideand reveals your shameless glow.Help her embrace the waves along her sidebefore the world tells her no.

They'll tell her lies that sting her souland burn her flesh with bleach.Then, fill the void that you left wholeunless you stress your speech.

Remember, you must: callous storms can't be defeateduntil self-love and appreciation are repeated.

Blank Canvas, Preferably

Add a speck of black to the corner of the page, then line the canvas with blue;blue lenses over my brown eyes, and a blue collar around my neck.Feed me your words of honey nectar,which is as smooth as the umber liquor you've sold me since I was two.

Allow me to stand in the sun you've created with your fleshthat beams brighter than light; rightfully so, you believe.I wait for the resemblance to show,but the speck prevents our lanes from being sewn.

Yet, in the center of the page, I anticipate being chosen by thee;the only one that could be worthy enough to make the selection, of course.I twirl my altered curls and cross my pale fingers in a dress that mimics yours, butto my displeasure, the edges of the canvas begin to peel as you wait with tapping heelsfor myself to be revealed.

You cringed as I cried.I tried to wipe it down to a speck and not a half;a speck and not a quarter or an inch or enough to be smeared from one side to another.But a speck of black was too present on your canvas.

With a stroke of neutral you blended the speck into the background—correcting the color—then straightened the edges.Back to the blank canvas I went, pretending that your name was mine, and you liked it.In fact,all was pleased,except me.