I am the spitting image of my mother.
I take after her,
my methods of madness and witty words
were a gift given from birth that I bear
that reminds my lola of herself, too.
She raised me to be like her—
she raised me in a way where others would not agree—
she taught me that I am not me but her.
She taught me to speak like her,
to speak her native tongue that began eons ago from line after line
and until I learnt how to speak myself I sang
line after line of old wishes and hymns from
spitting images of myself.
My face has been seen since the beginning of time
and yet I know nothing of the past me’s
and nothing of the people who’s caught a glimpse of my eyes
or those who know my rough hands as if it were their’s
or the ones who have memorised every syllable my mouth can say.
I will never get the chance to backtrack on the adventures my face has been attached to
nor will I ever know them despite knowing each curve and dip my body has to offer.
I will never understand where my hair colour comes from or the way it blooms in the wind
like it did when my first self walked this earth;
I will never understand the mosaic my moles have carved in my body
like the stories of the stars and gods my other self created;
I will never understand my mother, or my mother’s mother,
like their mother’s did.
I am her, and she is me yet
I don’t know anything about her
just as much as she doesn’t know me.