Brialee Turner

The color of muted 

Raspberries is lined 

With creamy whipped 

Dots and then 

My name is signed

With what appears to me

To be the writing of a 

Celestial angel. I carry her

Everywhere with me,

Giving her dead body 

Wings so that she 

Can love me from 

The soul of heaven.

I feel that it’s unfair 

That I never learned how 

Much she loved me.

I didn’t even know 

What she smelled like,

Or what sparked joy in her.

I hate that I didn’t know

The “she” that made “me”.

And then I think about how

I want to cut off the people 

That have hurt me too,

That haven’t tried to understand me,

And if I ever have a “she” 

If I cut off a “her” and a “him” 

To protect “me”, will 

“She” want to know the smallest

Notes about the pains of

Humanity? 

For perhaps the “her” carried 

The “She” long before I realized 

The power and burning desire 

To change within “me”.