honest pleas in crude crayon
ham-fisted, over-saturated, filled to spilling – i am an old puzzle: pieces missing, colour faded
my conduct is a stutter and my voice contains a fumbling, green thing
there are days where my heart forgets its place
lodging in my throat, pressing into my larynx and choking me with each bloody pump
when the sky unfolds above me i misremember my own name
is it woman? is it immigrant? is it youth?
am i merely the brand burned into my skin by a thousand condemning stares?
am i a glass thing, changing within every fire i am placed?
can i ever be more than they’ve made me?
Hamilton Girls’ High School