My tongue is a fist.
It reveals truth
you all lick around,
like teasing the clitoris.
Words are my free will:
to manipulate like clay
all that's ever
manipulated me.
I’ve died a thousand times
yet returned more alive.
I plan no journey
yet always arrive.
Hitting rock bottom
to
fertilize
the soil.
Food on the table
without even a toil.
As real as the Hawaiian waves:
I can either float you or kill you.
My eyes see through the fog—
tongue fades mirages.
Too powerful to possess,
even the devil
camouflages.
On the verge of being a nun,
I reclaimed myself as witch.
Was shamed into poverty
until I learned that God is rich.
My humanity became the topic
of Confession.
I plucked flowers
without permission.
I held men
with leadership
instead of
submission.
I went I bed with prayers unsaid,
and threw away the cotton
on which I weekly bled.
As a child
I squashed a bug
so I could paint
the sidewalk
red.
Sainthood required a life of dread,
so I spit out the apple
and opted for Sunday bread.
Walked with
a posture of apologies,
reciting eulogies
over my dreams and reveries.
I woke up
when I learned that
I could never win.
That when fear is ingrained,
even freedom
tastes like sin.
© Stephanie Khio 2024.