I do not struggle as you
pluck me up
by the nape of my neck
like I am so small, setting me so
gently,
down,
into your mortar–
I just wonder–
who are you
to press me down and grind me up,
to crush until I’m only
these bits and parts
of me?
To pull from my insides
the things you love/
the things you like
and hide the rest like scrap
all down the sink?Building me anew from
all the pieces
and all your lessons
and all your words
of who you think
that I should be?I’d ask you this, of course,
if mine own mouth
you had kept,
not simply built me one
brand new
with your calloused crafty hands,but also
Who am I
to let you get away
with doing this?
Who was I to let you
just remake me?
(via inkstay)




















