she has hips
that could birth a religion
the kind of layers
you'd need a rosetta stone to decipher
on the day she was born,
she was regarded as less
than a charcoal lump of disappointment
the world has not been clever enough
to erect monuments in her honor
most days you can still see
the cracks in her skin where starshine
is draining out
it's only been seven years
since the last time she tried to die
to prove, they were all right
but I see her
she has the kind of hips
that were made for riding love hard
the kind of backbone built
to prove, they were all wrong
on the day she was born,
there was no welcome mat
there was only daybreak
which has tried to break her
and has failed
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