by Taya Wynn
Sometimes I still am the child who never cried:
both brand new and weary
screwing fists into white-knuckled pacifiers
seething with anger
before she could even comprehend what it was.
When I cry, my mouth shudders
at the taste of blood
a ghost chews my bottom lip raw
and pulls out old glass
drawing a new fingerprint, once again.
It is true- I have smashed many windows
but I have always knelt and picked up the pieces
suffered for my actions, just an inch across the line
even when it was as simple as balls kicked too hard
it is clear, in all the ways a human can
I do not know how to be soft.
[originally published in Moonbow Magazine]
© Taya Wynn
Taya Wynn (she/her) is a writer originating from New Zealand. In the past few years, she has been a surf instructor in NZ, pulled an ‘into the wild’ for a couple of weeks, and now will be volunteering on the west coast of the United States until the next adventure catches her fancy.
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