epitomizing-bek

[epitomizing-bek]

There are only a few iotas of evidence

To prove my existence

Half of my newborn face

Graces a photograph

Cut out of an image

I was never meant to be in

My childhood body

Pictured happily sliding

In a playground I only remember being sad in

You won't find me in home made

Vhs tapes or family albums

Staged for viewing at gatherings

I dont exist on the walls of my family home

Nor appear in places of pride to be shown

No wallets, or Polaroids to own

I have collected forgotten birthdays

And misspelt names

And not a single keepsake of my blood line

I have no contact in my phone

Marked mom or dad

But I have this body

I cover in art and bruises

To prove I am impermeable

To prove I was once a girl

Now grown into a woman

Who checks her reflection several times a day

Scared of the mirror being empty

I pinch myself to know I can feel

Because for so long

Growing up,

I thought I was not real

[epitomizing-bek]

Adela Florence Nicolson, from a poem titled “When Love Is Over: Song of Khan Zada,”

[epitomizing-bek]

linger

I let myself linger a little too long,

ignored frantic warning calls and texts

from friends and my therapist

because to feel his harsh words and balled up fist

proved that I was real.

I spent days at a time

floating high above the clouds

too far from any ground, my coping mechanisms try to grasp

so at last

when your fist snapped me back in to my body

all I could do, was breathe,

and say thank you.