my therapist tells me i am normal
that i am not defective or damaged or a million
other names for broken or empty inside. did i
mention that i feel empty inside this body
and sometimes i think i might scream out
at the world or god or my mother who
never understood never held me
longer than a high note. but this is not about my mother
not about a small child: scared or unwelcomed.
not about distance or absence or a million other names
for shame. she reminds me to breathe—
tells me that this body is worth more than the heat
i give it. this body a collection of a hundred tiny mouths
yelling listen hear the sound of our heartbeat
echo listen to the sound of a thousand suns — rising.

-*

Victoria Mullis is a writer from Franklin, Indiana. She is an enthusiastic lover of all things coffee and plans to pursue a graduate degree in creative writing.