We build above ground now,
touch the earth and lift.
What a beautiful house,
crown molding, wood floors,
but at the edges the
unforgotten blemishes are
The portrait wall is full of faces that aren’t yours,
why don’t you ever hang your own artwork?
Ink bursts on the tongue,
spit out the truth,
does it have to be beautiful to count?
All those women in front of your mother’s mirror
with their hair pulled tight to scalp,
the pain, the pretty.
What does it mean to get up out of the mud?
That we are dirty, that we are alive,
that we will wield this language
in whatever direction we want.
Fuck it, bring the earth inside,
fuck it, write your secrets in the margins,
fuck it, look yourself in the mirror every morning
and tell it, Ma,
I made it,
I made it.
A.M. Kennedy, “The Ugly Wallpaper & Every Other Useful Thing That Came Cheap”