our vulnerabilities,
blinking in shyness
with eyes averted
carefully, from insecurities
of others, too much like ours.
Harelips, club feet, lazy eyes,
birthmarks, pockmarks, dumbo ears,
thick skin, thin skin, wrinkled skin,
voices, murmurs, memories,
words unsaid, and words outsaid –
a collection of wounds
we wrap around us and
carry, paradoxically,
like a protective shield,
a comforter, a motherly
armour, lulling us to our
baby sleep, hoping that those
we meet along the way won’t
shake us awake too rudely.
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