Guarascio

Beautiful

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

Don’t call me beautiful
because you like the shape of my face
or the shade of my eyes.
Don’t honor me with words
based on a temporal glance
and the reflection of sunlight on hair.

Instead,
feel the soles of blistered feet,
trace the scars of cuts on hands,
sketch stretch marks and belly scars.
Recognize motherly concern
mixed with childish innocence in eyes
brown enough to know better.
Find the beauty in patient creases of forehead
and the tense quiver in lips pressed in concentration.

Know my tongue,
curse words and foolish phrases,
The unavoidable allusion
to every song and movie I know by heart.
Laugh at my jokes because they are yours too.
Know my midnight whispers
alongside my wild laugh,
the flick of my tongue beside your own at two am.
Recognize the tune I hum
so far off from any known key.

Find beauty in the parts of me
I would readily carve out of my body
with blade and bullet.
In my crumpled face,
red and weak with tears.
Find beauty in my careless mistakes
and broken promises.

Trace spine and caress shoulder blades,
Sing with me,
it doesn’t matter if you know the words.
Tease in the same tone you take,
Block my punches and throw your own.
Remember my oaths, recite my vows,
but refrain from tossing them back to me.

Fumble through all the wreckage
that makes me who I am.
Show me,

you know me,

accept me,

then, tell me.

 

“Beautiful” is previously published in They Don’t Make Memories Like That Anymore (2011).

Cora

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

he changed
my name, mother

he painted my
hair red and left
my skin to pale
hidden from the
childish strokes
of the sun

with mother’s strings
no longer to bind me
I found a comfort in the
shadow of his kindness

for three months
I hid in the back rooms
knowing full well
the sun was shinning

mother,
did you realize
this ripening fruit was
unplucked

In your absence

I fell from vine

“Cora” is previously published in the Black Poppy Review (2021).

American Girl

/ Katrina Kaye

Katrina Kaye

I am an American Girl
raised only on promises.
I was molded from cement.
Baptized in venom and told not to cry,
but under my skin is porcelain,
hopes strangled in conception.

Breast feed stereotypes of submission
and honor roll expectations,
acceptance measured
by the circumference of waist
and the slit between legs.
I was never quite good enough.

You want me as smart as the
whip chasing the horse to the finish line.
You want me to fuck like a porn star,
drink the boys under the table,
and still make tortillas and roll my
Rs like my grandmother taught me.

You told me
I could be anything I wanted to be.

Fuck you, America,
I’m your girl.

You’re the reason I haven’t
enjoyed a meal since I was seven.
The reason I’m afraid to walk home
alone at night. I have bent my back crooked
to fit through your wire gates, but am
still left with fresh scratches every time
I open my door.

America,
my skin knows well the crawl of insect awkward,
the sound of your cat calls,
I have bitten my tongue until it bleeds.
My closet wields a collection of masks.
They are no different than every other
girl you made in your image.

I see it in every adolescent sitting
in classroom fretting her figure,
painting her eyelids. I see
starvation in ribcage,
insecurity carved on arms
hollow of spirit.
America, this is your creation.

You taunted us with promises of all we could be
if we just worked hard enough,
then trapped us under low ceilings blaming
in on the weakness of our gender.

It is no wonder that when you finally gave us the power to
stand up, we still destroy each other, to destroy ourselves.
Your misogyny is so ingrained within us we
call it morality, instead of the hate
it really is.

The greatest nation in the world
spoon feeds chains to our girls
from the moment we are born
so we are yours from the inside out.

You raised us,
your American Girls,
we are your conception
but we do not have to be your legacy.

We have grown into women,
powerful and capable. We do not have
to work against each other; we are strong enough
to hold each other up. We can weaponized ourselves
to crack the walls you have built for us.
We do not have to be what
we have always been. We can be better.

“American Girl” is a former performance piece (2012-2016).