Lucid Dreamer

The moon is unforgiving, and so is my mother.

I have six journals, incomplete,

piled underneath my bed, sitting underneath my head

brimming with insecurity and prayer.

Some nights, I wake up wailing,

reciting pages from my diary,

chunks of my skin caught in my teeth.

Mother’s weathered fingers, coated in the dust

of abalone shells and holy water

that glaze my round cheeks,

nimbly flicker through pages of the Bible.

On these nights, she rebukes me.

I am a child with round knees,

round lips, and wide eyes.

Beneath the hems of my mother’s

hand-me-down clothes, my thick wrists

swollen red, the habit of nails consuming skin.

I am a child with a round tummy, round thighs, and shaky hands.

At the age of ten, I stare at the curdled round breasted pigeon

whose heart thumps irrationally

cold in my chubby hands, with envy.

At night, my mother hovers as I say my prayers

and shoo away sheep. My chubby hands don’t clasp right,

instead they fuse and protrude into a plea for forgiveness.

The taste of my wish is humiliating,

I still feel pigeon hearts thumping between my palms.

I feel guilty for telling Jesus that he’s made a mistake.

I’m too round, too quiet, and I’m scared of my own shadow.