I Write, I Write, I Write

Sitting at the kitchen table,

The Beauty and the Beast soundtrack

Humming through an earbud,

My mom streaking the stars

Across my fingernails,

Her hands are cupped around

A rose,

Perfectly red petals

Curling to the center,

Where she has stored her heart;

Hate

Is ignorance:

It’s when eyes

Skim past the story of scars,

Focusing rather on the fact

They’re there;

They let the jagged curves