Don't Talk With Your Mouth Full

One day it’ll probably be revealed to me,

By my mother, or an old aunt who saw me grow up

A curse of sorts. They’ll tell me it was given right after childbirth—

A propensity to tell the truth; the need to peel layers; present the facts.

That when my heart’s confessions reach my lips,

Friendships sour,

memories weaken,

loves dissipate. 

The other day, mom and I were talking about belly dancing. She said she could never wear those mid-baring outfits because her tummy has stretch marks. I thought, three childbirths ago, that tummy was silken and without blemish—free to be bared anytime. 

Yesterday, I read a poem written by a girl named Cassie Fox. She talked about her tummy marks, and I remembered mom. 

BIRTH MARKS

A mark for every breath you took, every blink, every sleepy yawn. 


One for every time you sucked your thumb, waved hello, closed your eyes, and slept in the most perfect darkness. 


One for every time you had the hiccups. 


One for every dream you dreamed within me. 


It isn’t very pretty anymore. 


Some may even think it’s ugly. 

That’s okay. 

It was your home.


It held you until my arms could, 
and for that,

I will always find something beautiful in it.  

~ 

Thanks for putting up with those marks, momski. You’re beautiful.

And, we love you.

There’s something about Mad Men’s most recent episode (S05E06) that gutted me. Probably, the theme of breaking routine and fleeing; of desiring to be someplace else.

“I don’t want vacation to end.” ~ Sally Draper

There’s an urgent need to leave to find the self, and while the entire journey is trippy and revealing, the high doesn’t last long. There’s a wave of dread that immobilizes you when you realize getting away only becomes intriguing, if you’re certain that you can find your way back home.