When our fathers don’t make us feel like daughters,
& when our mornings feel like night.
When our homes feel like prison,
& when our prisons have become home.
When our forever dreams feel like never dreams,
& when our bones feel paralyzed in their ache to run.
When he swallowed that pill he said he abandoned,
& when he kissed her lips that were not your own.
When our tears feel like refuge—comfort we are alive,
& when our empty bank accounts empty us of all hope.
When our husbands turn cold at the moment we are dying for their warmth,
& when our wives are too busy to play with our hair.
When we let our scars become our children’s,
& when our own breath feels uncatchable.
I pray a thousand hallelujahs crash over us,
Bleaching our crimson pains into dancing-white joy.
this freedom we are chasing is waiting in our own back pockets.
Sewn shut by the work & wounds of fragile hearts just like our own,
Who stitched us up to look like them.
We will turn to the One who never wounds,
The One who only bandages,
& gently undos our sewn-shut pockets holding our liberation.