Within a few weeks of her escape, the girl outgrew her only dress and had nothing to wear. Trying not to make a fuss, I gave her something of mine. She thanked me. She looked so ashamed. That she, a ... [+]
My nana has an accent.
The blood still drips into her sentences.
Fear made her deny her home
cutting out her mother tongue.
It shoved language down her throat,
and she stumbles over sharp english edges.
Her hair, corse and curled–like mine,
and they made me hate it.
With my mother's milk-pale skin,
her genes bleaching me.
Past generations adoring European paste
and all that's left is a ghost.
Then there's the stench.
Hair burnt straight.
Crucified curls,
Denied of their bounce And beauty And joy.
Rebellious strands zig zagging
refusing to straighten out.
I touch those pieces,
and wish they'd all just be the same.
The blood still drips into her sentences.
Fear made her deny her home
cutting out her mother tongue.
It shoved language down her throat,
and she stumbles over sharp english edges.
Her hair, corse and curled–like mine,
and they made me hate it.
With my mother's milk-pale skin,
her genes bleaching me.
Past generations adoring European paste
and all that's left is a ghost.
Then there's the stench.
Hair burnt straight.
Crucified curls,
Denied of their bounce And beauty And joy.
Rebellious strands zig zagging
refusing to straighten out.
I touch those pieces,
and wish they'd all just be the same.