Graphic by Naima Mark
You were born with a bee sting nobody believed in throb itch burning as it coup d'etated your heart, reducing you to wound— wound with nothing and everything to lose— wound with legs that still can’t stand straight beneath all their shouting “Broken.” Wound is not broken. Wound is shrink and swallow, yes, wound is finger crossed hope that I bear more than mistake, but wound is not broken. No, the broken do not feel lead rising in their throats and speak despite the threat in their bodies— do not watch their body turn to scar, and dance, and dare to celebrate all that’s left gaping. The broken are not so brave as the wounded.