Cicatrizes , Scars

You did a good job of causing me pain,
Not good enough,
I’m still here, be a man and accept the blame.
My back’s like Swiss cheese
from your psychological knife.
My heart’s scared,
a hidden sign of our strife.
You slowly, masterly, inflicted fear
like some dirty old Aztec priest never shedding a tear.

Many times I let you wear the pants even if
you had nothing to fill them.
Is that why you needed to be in control?
Is that why you hated me?
Did you fear my powerful ovaries, my third eye?
Many times they were more like cojones on the inside.
They filled my being when I stood up to you, now I have both.

Oye, Listen.
Why did you always wear shoes too big for your feet?
You never walked …you shuffled along,
always missing the beat.
Did you really think that women would be looking at them
and think. Wow! What big ……
Ay Papa…., Oh Baby…...What a laugh.
All they had to do was look at your face
with your crooked nose and your crooked eye
leading to your shrivelled, evil, crooked little heart
a true reflection of your soul and that other dead place.

I feel like some kind of Revolucionaria with her
torn rebozo blowing in the wind.
Her white nagua de picos trimmed with blood and shit.
Wetting her lips with tears and spit
With bare feet that try to forget where they have been.
And still full of energy and passion,
proudly wearing cicatrizes on her skin.