for the tarnished hearts

𝒎𝒊𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒓𝒔

one big ramble. poetic at times, hopefully. i wrote this mostly for me. and for those who broke the cycle of generational trauma. and lastly, for those who feel disconnected from their culture and their country and blood, but not quite accepted in america either. not sure if i was able to express my thoughts well but just know it came from the heart. love you <3

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the mirror warps and melts before me

and i reach into the shining, silvery mass,

finding my mother's mother and her mother's mother,

seeing them in my eyes,

the deep pools of caramel that have survived generations,

the soft lines of my jaw,

and the full lips that fail

to carry the language of my country,

the lithe hands that don't know the callouses

of pure, hard work, fingertips that cannot dip into hot oil,

no fingerprints worn away.

my limbs don't know the fluid, angelic grace of dancing,

of the whimsical ways of bulaklakan.

i don't know the women who came before me,

but their souls perch on my shoulders

and i wonder if their culture dies with me

like a labyrinth of tiny candles

blown out in one breath.

yesterday, i sat with my mother.

she cut a mango for me, the bright yellow of the fruit

glowing under the kitchen light.

her sun-damaged skin was soft and stretched thin over slender bones

but her fingers still curled comfortably around the small knife.

she told me, "when i was your age, i told myself that if i ever had a daughter, i'd never be like my mother."

she tucked my hair behind my ear and i felt the cycle break,

crumbling beneath a gentle act.

i wanted to cry for her, cool tears to soothe the scars i was not alive to witness.

how do you thank someone for keeping their heart soft,

for not letting raw metal curl up around it 

like a flower shying back into a bud?

that night i climbed into my mirror

and found only myself.

the women before me were not perfect,

and neither am i.

i lift their souls off my shoulders and feel no guilt.

this time i stare back at myself and see how my mother's sacrifices

have held me up,

distanced myself from my ancestors 

but also from pain,

carried me to this future laid at my feet,

ancient, sepia-stained origami unfolded and flattened out

into moments i can shape with my own hands.

the worn creases in the paper, the patterns of the past,

don't need to be followed.

i can love bits and pieces and leave parts behind.

i am perfectly whole as i am,

a culmination of cultures and beginnings and sunrises i breathe in

only for my own lungs.

the women before me have lived their lives,

but mine is now my own to lead.