Letter to myself

Your skin bronzes easily over the scars You could choose;
black ink seemed a strong cover up for raised flesh.
seven tattoos but nine scars.

I know You still mourn Yourself.
Losing Your past feels like heartbreak, death, and a haunting
all in one swell in Your ribs. ((That You only feel when You exhale
because maybe your lungs fall a bit deeper))

When identity comes from definition and discovery You may feel less
like the work of a mother and more like the work of a surgeon.

But You are made from the earth
to the earth, shall return.
It takes bravery to dig up as well as to bury.
We only realize this when we are lowering her,
when “can’t can’t can’t” becomes “could have could have could have”.
There will always be “didn’t”.
Though You may feel You are everything all at once:
you’re not and you don’t have to be.


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