He told me
Said it was:
and I could feel the slice of his tongue open up
trenches in my flesh
over fault lines where past meets fat.
I tried to change for him. Meet his preference.
Shave my parts.
Straighten my half-Dominican locks.
Keep a curve.
He didn't understand what kind of warrior I was.
Stretch marks like battle scars
mark my skin--
crosshatching a crossroads
as the borders
drip like dulce de leche
reminding me of the island
I saw once in a dream
and touched twice with
My flesh was conceived by dualism.
My body will not apologize
for carrying the weight of
a mother, father, brother
Borders I cannot cross, flesh that cannot be merged,
a lingering multiplication; oppressor/oppressed.
I perfect my Standard English
while hips oscillate to the sound
of bachata y merengue
tying to dance its way
into my college education.
It is never ending.
It is always tired.
It is ready for battle.
He didn't know what kind of story I was trying to tell with my