By James Asava

Once my body was a plum, a purple bruise
from my umbilical cord. Broken from 
stairs I've fallen down, my cousin 
shattered me like a vase in my
deceased grandmother's house. 
I knew how to get a concussion
before I knew how to tie my shoes.
We are not born a clean canvas.
There is always something on us,
Like a dent on a car, a scalloped 
cup unable to hold. 
How am I supposed to wash 
these shrunken clothes without 
any water?How am I supposed to wash 
my head when I can't see
what's dirty? 
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