by Ms. Butterfly Genesis
Last night,
my conversation with God was easy.
No thunder.
No trembling sky.
Just one question,
soft-spoken,
But heavy like a thousand unsaid things.
I didn’t ask for miracles.
I asked if she’d ever understand.
Not you—God.
Her.
The woman who gave me life
But clipped the wings before I learned to fly.
She won’t ask God.
She won’t ask if she ever knew the pain
of removing pieces of me
like clutter from a shelf—
because she felt like it,
because she thought it wasn’t good enough
for the version of me she imagined.
And maybe that’s the part that stings.
Not the silence.
Not the absence.
But the belief
that a mother could mold a child
by subtraction.
I take my seat in this life
With full accountability.
I own the detours,
The broken mirrors,
The dreams I folded into corners
because I thought they’d fit better there.
But what gets under my skin—
What burns slow like incense in a locked room—
Is the thought,
not the proof,
just the thought
that someone who gave me breath
might use that same power
to choke out my becoming.
Not because she’s evil.
Not because she hates me.
But because she never saw the garden
growing wild in my chest
and thought the weeds were all there was.
And maybe I do sound crazy.
But crazy is just the truth
With no place to land.
So I ask God,
not for vengeance,
not for clarity,
But for the grace
to keep growing
even when the soil remembers
Every hand that tried to uproot.
by Ms. Butterfly Genesis
The Memoir Of Ms. Butterfly 