My mother named me wrong.
I am electricity constricted beneath too tight of skin.
I am earthquakes, and dry eyes when my mother is crying at the pills in my hand.
God assigned me a name that made no sense.
Heaven who ended up walking on the edge of hell at 4 a.m
Born a mistake, forgive me for the way my hands tremble at the thought of standards, for I'm as fragile as the topic of ******* in a church sermon.
I am a crude misconception of a woman, with the morals of a man.
I am my fathers daughter if I were to be claimed, but I refuse branding, and I am my own darkness.
I am nothing but I am.

Don't leave me for the bedroom, we've been there a handful of time, my hair tangled around your fingers, and the time you said you loved me written across your chest.
I've slept alone in here, maybe once or twice, the smell of you blanketed me and I felt so completely disabled, so paralyzed with thought of you bringing your heat beneath these sheets.
I've examined every inch of this room, I can tell you where the light shines like moons, and almost every object on your bedside table (a stuffed dog, loose change, a note, crumpled up homework, a dock, your keys, the miscellaneous, and me.)
I've laughed here, but I'll never cry here, beds with beautiful boys were never meant for mini-oceans and heaving shoulders. I wonder if you've cried here, laughed here, wished for me here. Makes me wonder who else knew everything on that table, or saw the dust filtering through your blinds, did she love it all as much as I?
This felt safe, your warmth and your chest beating along in time with mine, this wasn't home, but a hell.
For if you left? These would be the things to haunt me.