Selfish
the judge implores me: raise your right hand.
do you swear to lie?
the scalpel pulls my skin back, flaying eyes
vivisect me on the witness stand
for the crime of feeling anything other
than confidence.
my lips are sewn together with red thread,
a gag order from my mother's mother
whose mother smiled
when she said big girls don't cry.
it's passed down in my blood
80 generations of women who always had to try
just a little harder than anyone else.
my mother looked me in the eyes
to tell me that it's selfish to be sad,
and i haven't cried since.
i am not diamond,
but stone is good enough,
and if i was any less i would shatter
into a million mirror shards
that reveal a seven-year-old who feels far too much,
who has never been the rock for anyone
at all.
it's selfish, maybe, still
i've locked her in my skull where she'll be safe,
where she can't escape, but she beats at the back of my teeth,
begging to be free,
and i don't know how much longer i can hold her.
she rests on the tip of my tongue
in dark mornings and street-lit nights,
her name burns the back of my throat and
crawls up to sleep in the roots of my eyes
because i can't bring myself
to say it
and set her loose.
she tastes like salt and copper—
acceptance wasn't made for me.
i can't let her be seen.
i will hide this part of me until it hides itself.
(the truth is that i'm scared.)
Copyright © Nicole Lauren | Year Posted 2023
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