K.Y. Robinson

i can’t pinpoint
the moment
we decided to stay
in the sun too long
and made raisins
of ourselves.
we sucked the juice
out of ourselves
and withered
on the vine
called life.

men who were old enough
to be our fathers
waited for our ripe bodies
to fall from our mothers’ trees
as if they were entitled to
our fruit.

i feel like something
is broken inside of me like:
shattered glass,
cracked eggs
on the kitchen floor,
brittle twigs
in the dead of winter,
and shards of a mirror
that said i would never be
the fairest of them all.