When god was moulding my clay, hardening me into shape of a girl
He gave me a belly full of blood, insectile limbs, and a handful of
sea
in my tear ducts.
He gifted my mouth and fingers, vowels and letters,
Honeyed hair, love handles, stubbed ankles, and milkflowers
When god was moulding my clay, the sky was black, like dead
crickets
He gave me hip bones I can make lives out of but I don’t make use of that power
I don’t want to become a of my creations
My mother tells me that when God kicks
-you out of the womb, wherever the skin of his touches,
There blooms a birth mark.
When god kicked me to the face of the
Earth, he kicked me in the chin or
touched the roof of my mouth
That’s why I have moles on my tongue.
I don’t think he made me devoid of maternal instincts
or love. I am all full of love, brimming with it.
I have taken lovers who ask me,
Am I looking for a lover or a religion I can sleep with?
