I grew up with a miracle. My sister that is. The doctors gave her two months to live and now she is still bugging me at 16. The doctors told her she would never utter a word and here she is telling them to fuck right off. The doctors told her that she would never walk and now she stumbles with the wind. My sister is a miracle most don’t believe. A special type of person, one that should only live on screens. She dances and twirls and takes every breath just to spite everyone and anyone that tells her she can’t. Chest ripped open at the age of five and so many surgeries it makes my mother sick. I tagged along for it all. I know the streets of Boston like the back of my hand and don’t ever try to tell me that hospitals aren't that bad because I grew up in the waiting room of one. I was the side effect of a miracle so in the end what does that make me?
Miracle
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Labels
When you label someone you put them in a box.
A child has to be innocent, a woman has to be perfect, a man has to be strong. All these labels that we have for everything and anything. -
Perfectly Imperfect
People have always told me that I’m perfect. I’m this shiny object that doesn’t have an imperfection in sight. But people don’t know that nobody is perfect, and that even seemingly perfect people have cracks. -
Mother Knows Best
Mother knows best. That’s what they always say. But what happens when she doesn’t know best, what then. I am left out in the sea whirling as the currents push me this way and that.
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