The Bright Places Burn, Too Poem by cheynne branham

I was born
in a house with sunlight wallpaper-
yellow like joy,
but too clean,
too binding
to see what grew
beneath the floorboards.

they thought me
to smile with my teeth,
not my truth.
to keep the bruises
on the inside
where they'd ferment
quietly
into a woman
who looks fine.

I was the good daughter,
the honor roll liar,
the girl who bled invisible.

at church,
they lit candles for the lost
and called it mercy,
but no one noticed
I was the flame
not the wick-
burning without being missed.

there are things that live
behind light.
like mold.
like memory.
like the version of me
I buried
so deep
she learned to breathe dirt.

but she claws sometimes,
when its quiet,
when I wear white
or laugh too loud.
she reminds me:

even diamonds
are made from pressure
and rot.