Birth of Venus

A poem I wrote for creative writing about what happens when your body grows up before you do.

Birth of Venus By Sandro Botticelli

You were born today 

Or rather, you are now 

Alive in my mind. A

Fabrication ordained by 

oil and canvas. Or

You were a woman robbed

Of coming-of-age. Born

With pain weaved in.  

Peaking behind your eyes. 

Swirling below your fingertips. 

Frozen inside your bones. 

Unlearned, yet it’s 

Lyrics to a song,

Riding a bike, 

A mother’s touch. 

Intertwined; Understood. 

Have you felt your heart drop?

Shattering on the floor. Pieces

Bleeding together. Creating 

A kaleidoscope of futures

Unfolding before you. 

Have you felt a pit?

Growing, reaching out to your

Creator. Bearing fruit for those

Who hate, curse, punch, cry

Yet, they are those who love. 

Did you feel it all at once? Or

Overwhelming waves, drawing

In and out. Or you felt nothing but

a dull ache. Controlled. Safe. 

Aches, heartbreaks, hurt, under

Your thumb–held close. 

Were you held? No

Knees spilling blood, No

Golden hair splintering , No

Voice hoarse after you talk. Or

Perhaps you are 

An artist’s dream, 

Only a small fragment

Of who he loves. Refusing 

That you hold a likeness 

To a daughter, a child. Refuting

That you could ever be someone’s 

Baby. 

And perhaps,

You were a woman because

No artist believes the world is cruel 

Enough to make a child desirable.

But I know who you are. 

And perhaps it still is. 

Pain will always be our

Birthright.