a letter to my mother (I)

dear ma,
when you hold my face
with a look of dismay,
in your hands and give it a 
“not pretty enough” brand,
it hurts. 

it hurts like ingesting poison:
like every nerve, 
every capillary,
every pipe, 
every bronchi inside of me
is on fire,
is sizzling.

sticks and stones 
don’t break my bones ma,
it’s your words that
kill me through.