i wear my father's face when i am contemplative
and my mother's when i smile.
this face bears both their joys:
however rare and fleeting,
and their unbridled internal turmoil:
their singular constant.
my earliest memory is a lashing-out
in the form of a wrist slap
for failing to colour inside the lines
knowing this, then, would you take it back?
i do not take the word 'beautiful' lightly
when you use it to describe me.
you ought to know where i come from:
this beauty stems
from as much dark as there is light,
i am both water and well.