Crybaby

“No one likes a crybaby,” Mama said, as I sat on her knees staring up at her with coffee-ground, doe eyes, filled to the brim with the oceans my mother traveled for me. A trembling lip, tears spilling over like milk— All for a scraped knee. A half moon scar forming under droplets of blood; incomplete. Ingrained are the ways of keeping the peace by destroying my own. 

Photograph by @didssph