The Things That They Say Aren’t Real

 

They tell me her tears are not real.

And neither were the bruises,

And neither were the pinch marks,

And neither are the mornings when

she cries don’t make me go.

And neither are the afternoons when

she jumps into the car and says

just drive mommy just drive

And they tell me it’s not real

that my eyes were lying to me

that i couldn’t have seen the smirk on his face

that i couldn’t have heard the brut in his voice

that i couldn’t have smelled the raw power

—-on his pale skin

that i couldn’t have seen his parents demure

at his aggressive gait, at his world is mine strut

at the very notion that for him the word no

does not exist.

And what do we teach our daughters and our sons

When we’ve told them all their lives to stand steadfast

As we fall into the abyss, the whiteness of everything

is okay; nothing is wrong, let’s be friends

when all the while my daughter watches

as they attempt to bloodlet

assimilate our spirits dry.

 

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About margaretelysiagarcia

Margaret Elysia Garcia primarily writes fiction, essays and poetry from a remote corner of the Sierra Nevada. She's currently working on a non-fiction book about body positivity through plus-sized alternative modeling .She blogs here and at Throwing Chanclas. And is the co-founder of Pachuca Productions a Latina owned microtheatre in Plumas County, California
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