Forced Flexibility

I grew up with flexible skin, 

always adjusting to the palms that hit my legs, 

not too crimson,

but a little flush that would remind the child 

of what hits it. 

Sometimes the white marks would linger

a print left behind claiming to be a lesson

and I'll record how long it stays

adjusting and adjusting

from a second

to a minute, 

and to a quarter

but it hits the same. 

I grew up with flexible bones 

not breaking but just enough to crack 

and heal after a day 

adjusting and adjusting

to be brave and stand tall

yet also collapse with one word.

My bone adapts, especially on my hands 

as I balled my fists 

adjusting and adjusting

until you hear that snap 

and see that scarlet palm. 

This time your own. 

I grew up with flexible joints 

that provide stability and movement

for the body that has been stiff

and the life that was stolen. 

Remembering the fetal position I keep.

adjusting and adjusting 

until you are trapped in a box 

and you cannot move an inch 

Yet you are still supposed to adjust 

even when your bones are out of your skin. 

Fractured by responsibility. 

So tonight

I refuse to move. 

Embraced by rigidity 

resisting to bend.