There are hairs that nudge out

at the tip of my chin

and I feel as though I never win

at this game of love and connection.

 

This blonde mop sticks up

again and again

as it shadows

uneven and red-as-fuck skin.

 

The words that I say

break into a st-stutter,

and confidence aside

friends stopped asking

to please play outside:

they have their own worlds

to discover.

 

My family kneels down

on the east coast

with their crosses,

their churches,

a God they love most.

A safe distance away

keep your morals, they say.

Cross your legs

Say your prayers

Don’t forget Him this day. 

 

They don’t know that I pray

 

in a much different way:

to my heart

to the sun

to this fucking day

to the words from my lips

and the fact

I’m okay.

 

I may pick at my scabs

yet I notice my eyes

are a pool of stories

once-told white lies

of an Ark and a King

and those three strange Magi.

 

Tall tales and fables

another book

that’s been shelved.

 

I roughly set it aside.

 

I stand in my love

on my ground

in my essence.

I bear joy in this world

regardless of blessings

or rather — lack of —

since your God can’t define me.

I am whole

I am here

I’m insecure

yes, I’m angry.

 

But I’m ruthless

and loving

and sometimes,

my own family.

 

My insecurity

you see

is not about me.

It’s the thing

I’ve been told

with all certainty:

You don’t matter, woman,

in a world without men.

you must bear

the fruit of the womb,

praise be, amen.

 

But your religion

to me

stifles, depriving

the talent and joy

that I have

deep inside me–

That we

possess

in a profound

way.

 

The insecurity

you see

is not about me.

It’s the thing

we’ve been told

with all certainty–

You don’t matter, woman,

in a world without men.

you must bear

the fruit of the womb.

And to that I say again:

Fuck it all.

Amen.