Crow

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.

    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. 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.

The skin is split and torn and yet I can’t feel a thing. It’s a funny thing when pain is no longer an object of affection. Something that we can always count on being, disappears. The red love drips like molasses down my leg and I watch the flow.

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.