My mother does not know

Of the stone under my tongue

As she sits me on the floor between her legs

Dragging petroleum jelly through my hair.

She does not know of the blood that stains my thigh

And the tear in ny heart.

The textbook I never read and the story of 

King Jaja that I never finished telling.

I remember the banana peel the woman threw at my feet,

and in my dreams,

It causes me to stumble and fall.

I remember the stool I sat on

and the rush of hot liquid 

Down my legs as the woman watched.

Do I tell my mother my secret? 

As she weaves my hair into braids, tight

Yet lighter than my burden.

Or do I wait -

Till she loosens and washes my hair and

Let my fears alongside her despair

Wash down the drain.

Do I even know what name to give it?

Her fingers crossing the threshold of where my 

Mother warned me about.

If men touch you here, scream! 

Or do I wait till my neck hurts?

Because my head is heavy now,

I fear my neck might break and I loose my sanity.

Do I wait till the woman comes to knock on my door again?

Do I wait till my mother knocks on God’s door

And then whisper by her grave that I am not the child she left

Knowing she cannot hear me.