Her name is privilege.
She sits with me,
Elevating each pore of my skin,
Holding my hand when I scream for her to leave me alone,
She sheds herself onto the seats of my car,
The walls in my home,
The scars in back,
She creates rose colored glasses,
In the lovers I keep,
In the authority I demean,
In the degrees I obtain,
I still have her to keep me company,
She comes running,
When I break another human bone,
Falling to my knees,
She cleans up the blood before anyone can notice,
When I push her away,
She knows I'll eventually call her back in,
When life without her gets to be too much,
She coddles me to sleep.
She is privilege.
She is my mother,
My mother's mother,
No matter how much I resent her,
Like the spine that holds my petite delicate upright,
Beauty like the magazines,
I will never know life,
I will never have the right to claim that I do.
I am privilege.
And my body boils,
When I hear other voices,
Of whom carries her same endless relief,
Claim to know life where she is not.
But I am.
And so are you.