prayer of the bereft

My body is riddled with flaws. My mind fraught with fears. Look at the way I am sitting here – legs curled under, shoulders hunched and tense, lips thinned, brows furrowed, veins throbbing in my neck. I am a pupae before the breaking of my chrysalis. My mind, this mind, this wretched mind is small. Too small to conceive a way out when it traps itself in the dark. This mind is a newborn child. It is a handful of dust. It’s a quivering bird lost in the wind, wingless and adrift. It is a small cub, full of roar and sense of loss. I am a small child. I am a raging river. I am an aging mother. I am here and I am not here. My mind is a cavern, full of crevices, spaces left open, spaces cluttered with forgotten objects.

Take this as a prayer of the knife that had sliced through my skin to pull the child out of my womb. Or the splinter buried in the ridge of your thumb and became a part of you.

I am my father’s daughter. I am my mother’s son. I am not mine. I am no one’s. The soft animal shaking in her shell.

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