Artwork by Cyra Ali. Courtesy: ArtChowk Gallery.
My childhood was breezy and mean
I can still push away smiles like suns setting into darkness
with my bastard tongue,
And laugh like the victory leaves rustling in late winter.
I can breathe the word hatred, sigh the world’s momentary indiscretions,
fearless on my breath.
I can smell the incest of tree falling on tree,
and taste candy coated little girl tears.
You can move my charming 11 year old waist over your crotch,
and imagine the works of Voltaire written in the sky
and watch my 125 year old eyes blink rapidly, quote lines
fearless on my breath.
I will not etch the words of my love
onto the yellowed enamel of teeth but I can mould myself
from the round domes of taste buds and talk about how time changes everything,
stare back at every woman craving alcoholic kisses from the bad guy
they slept with 20 years ago, and still love,
fearless on my breath.
It is odd I am having sons with other sons,
they’ve painted my womb a luscious green like Mary I’s garden,
I’m not contrary, I just suck you into my culture and floss with my G-string,
I learn to read palms like veins in leaves, they are my beginning
and end, I release smoke with every syllable spoken,
fearless on my breath.
~ Lydia Hounat
Lydia Hounat is a 17-year-old poet living in Manchester, England, with not a publisher to her name. She won a Williams Senior Poetry Prize at school  and now writes with her Writing Squad, performing monthly in bars around town.Â
