Chipped

When I reassemble the stories from my childhood,
Mama doesn’t remember anymore 
“It’s water under the bridge,” she says, 
and I let myself smile 
But when she turns her head, 
I chip away like broken glassware: to be bandaged in layers and layers of 
old newspaper & disposed of carefully 

Mama loved me, I knew that 
I always knew things,
I was an easy child: a pretty little china doll, pristine with 
a visibly chipped tooth and 
a heart fragile like all of Mama's favorite figurines
My body, museum of scars: some from hitting doorstops and 
some from kissing every sharp corner of the room

Never grew up white (enough),
but I liked my PB&J sandwich with no crust and perfectly rounded corners
I liked burning hot tea and how it paralyzed my throat
I liked the pale yellow daisies braided into my best friend’s dark hair
I liked it when Mama slammed the door
softly behind her when she came home so I 
didn't have to shove my whole world 
back under my bed

Mama loved me, there were
diamonds to be found
in the filth that oozed from her red lips—a wasteland
I liked shiny things, but when Mama spoke, 
I only wished to be held together by silent prayers and pretty washi tape

Mama loved me, I always knew
I knew because she always made my favorite food from home:
chaomian, enough for two and she always
put the best on my plate
I knew she loved me because she 
whispered it in my ear every night when she ordered me to bed (not to sleep)
I knew she did, because
she was Mama and I 
was me

Look at that little china doll, 
belonging on the top of an étagère, now
thrown around—
hitting sharp corners and doorstops—
bleeding the color of
Mama’s love and an anger so similar
to love itself

When Mama's hand rises, 
I know it soon falls, soon finds its mark on 
my porcelain body and graces my skin shades of silver and gold,
times 
and 
times 
again

I know now
sometimes children with jagged edges grow to be 
Adults with breaches in their walls
Even if they had Mamas that loved them
as hard as mine did