Your son is ugly
He knows betrayal intimately,
Carries whole graveyards in his heart
As a child relatives wouldn't comfort him
He was a broken frame and shattered glass
They said he reminded them of the abuse
On his twelfth birthday you taught him
How to tie his shoes like shackles
And wear them proudly through the halls
You made him inhale smoke
And while he choked said,
Duro boys like you shouldn't smell of vulnerability or softness
You are his mother
Why did you not warn him
Hold him like a freshly picked flower
And tell him that girls will not love him
If he is covered in weeds
If his eyes are filled with fog
If his stomach is boiling with lava
If his hands are wrecking balls?
What woman wants to lay down and watch her home crumble and raze from her bedroom?
Your son's mind is a whirling storm of thunder and lightning
His bones quaking like loose plates
A deserted garden behind each ear
An abandoned temple left in his place
But god only knows when he'll fall
Inspired by Warsan Shire