When I was 5, I believed God made people form
cloth and button eyes.
That we all start off as dolls
and would be dropped into a galaxy.
Each perfect star its own place in the sky,
I was created with wool.
Stitched with giving.
Stuffed with kindness.
Started to rap this skin around my body,
So close to being perfect,
So close to being perfect.
God ran out of fabric.
Decided to pick the closest shade,
to stitch with leftover ugly.
Dropped me in dirt
I thought mistakes don’t belong in the sky.
At the age of 6, in the bathroom
I’d wished my skin white.
Scrubbed my fabric face over the sink.
I turned red as a peach.
I’d rub my skin until bone.
Until the stain was gone.
Until the mirror held a self-portrait
of all the things I wanted to keep.
I was 7, when I saw a tailor first time
They are on my aunties flat-screen TV
Do you want beautiful skin?
Makeup to cover up those ugly Blemishes?
Say It even covers birthmarks!
my hand's sew threw the air
to grab my hello kitty notebook
before the commercial ends.
I embroider the phone number onto the page
and stand on the thread of beauty.
I was 8
At Exposition Park
When kids morphs their mouth into needles to say, Why
are you so dark right there?
Were you burned? Cooked too long?
That I am a waste of fabric.
The thread breaks.
I am 13, in the living room and my mom asks me
if I want to get my birthmark removed
Those words burn each stitch in place.
My fabric decays like a rotten peach.
My cotton is replaced with everyone else’s smile.
I am worn.
I am torn
from thorn’s and button eyes.
I am tearing all the time.
My beginning was laced with feeling
unfit for love, life, or limbs.
But I have learned, I’m learning
That even scaring is healing
I think, for a moment,
of all the possibility
I answer no.
Not to prove their words mean nothing
or to crush, everyone, who had the audacity to say something.
I say No,
5 years old.
Over the sink.
and leaning towards the mirror.
If you search long enough
You’ll find all the stars in my beloved eyes