By: Deborah Kargo (’26), Staff Writer
It feels like speaking these desperate words that I wrote in the dark
births the growing pain that I have ignored for so long
Because now that I’m speaking
the wounds are begging to heal
They are begging me to allow them to fold over
for them to cease existence
But they must remain for me to relive when you spewed daggers into my skin
All the while
Building the enemy, I couldn’t see
swallowing every loving thing that told me to accept myself.
Somebody taught me in order to make it, I must implode silently
That the fury you embedded into my skin would build empires
But when the night comes
the moon sits tilting her head looking over me in pity
whispering for the sun that she may return
Watching me fight to find air as I grip myself, chest rattling as tears fall
So, when I do make it, I hope the shattered pieces are big enough to be put back together again
That maybe when the mirror is welded, I can
learn to peel back my lips and speak the potent words choked at the back of my throat
That a child would see my scars that capture my ebony skin and know that they can
stretch their mouth as far as it allows and wail their song until they listen.
Misaulany
