this is how you tell the truth

Collage by Joanna.

i’m waiting for love                to hit me like a train
because this is the last time i’ll be seven,
and i’m already starting to forget
why the second memory i have of my mother
is warmer than the first.

we’re sitting knee-to-knee by the windowsill,
a yo-yo (with cinderella on one side
and belle on the other) lies on the floor,
its knotted strings a quiet witness
of mommy’s mood swings.
my mother glues googly eyes onto pom-poms,
and in less than an hour
she becomes a god,
though gods aren’t supposed to have cold hands

my mother wants me to tell the truth,
she’s tired of driving me to dance lessons
i think giving birth to a coward scared her
more than giving birth to a daughter
because i love like an ingrate,
and ache like a daughter
but we’re not all like this.
someday i’ll be born anew
and i won't have to thank you for
this body         you despise so much
because who the hell wages war on their offspring?

i’m waiting for love                to hit me like a train
because this is the last time i’ll be seventeen.
i tell my therapist,
i’m tired of being a coward
because even when you're grown
you remember the hands that never held you
and the hope stored in pom-pom frogs,
and the price you'd pay to tell the truth. ◆

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Latifa Sekarini is an 18-year-old aspiring writer and TCK from Jakarta, Indonesia. They're currently studying Comparative Literature and Culture at Yonsei University. When she's not writing, she enjoys re-organizing her postcard collection, sharing poems with her friends, and taking oddly specific quizzes. Find them on Instagram.