what have i become?
its grotesque inside of me;
endlessly rotting flesh

i. i think i could make you real proud.
   i hate who ive become,
   all molten wings and soundless
   footsteps; i am a ghost in this house.
   i think i could make you real proud,
   real proud if i tried.
   smoke-smelling cave-dwelling
   teenager with nothing to do except
   weep for the victim inside of her, oh i
   cry for the ******* the outside too.
   oh how much you’ve grown,
   oh how much you’ve grown,
   oh how much you’ve blossomed,
   sweet girl,
   i haven’t seen you in so long.

i sip gasoline
like its medicine and i
taste the cough syrup

ii. i can explain why you haven’t seen me,
    i am too small for anyone to look.
    i am large in my mind. i fill up the room.
    no one notices.
    inside my head i kiss rooftops as i
    hover, small-brained and
    numb-minded like a bird or a
    teenager and i
    belong in that back seat, on that
    pavement making love with the asphalt.
    i nest amongst the darkness and the
    empty monster cans like
    a dragon hoarding its wealth.

i'd get high all day
if i could. but i must bleed
for the girl i lost

iii. we must fulfill something or else
     we wouldnt be here. we would be
     sick with worry if the birds migrated in
     summer; just like my mother
     cries herself to sleep over me
     every night.
     she chose this life, she chose me
     swollen and thick skinned, they say
     pregnancy changes your whole body.
     (i would know, wouldnt i?)
     i lay back, teary-eyed and red-cheeked,
     i forget my mother, i forget what
     she stands for, i forget my father and what
     he never stood up to, i forget that my heart
     is still beating, pumping, i
     forget that i
     am alive and
     i have so much
     worth left in me and
     i lay back, i lay back, i let them take me.

i am beautiful noi wish she could see me now,
all sore-thighed and beautiful
under the glow of the flame.
w that i am bandaged up,
i wrap my arms with gauze so my sicknesses can’t escape from the holes and
this makes me beautiful.
you never
said i was and
now i know i am,
i know it.
i know it.

i wonder how often you think of me,
                      i know it
i wonder if you remember me as fragile as i was or if you see me healed up and scarred over
                      i know it
i wonder if you remember the color of my eyes and
                      i know it
the way my hair fluttered in the wind
                      i know it
do you have good memories of me? or are they tainted?
are they cut up and burned like old photographs spilling out of the crevices in your mind, do you regret me?
do you regret loving me?
i buried my hamster in the box you sent me, you lay beside her with your arms crossed and flowers adorning your black hair

there is blood here, all caked up in the sink drain and
washed clean off the walls.
i can tell from the marks my elders have left,
like cave paintings,
like murals,
like when children who don’t know any better splatter their finger paint kit all over daddy’s office walls but
what has been here cannot be wallpapered over.
i find comfort in the way that everyone’s hair smells the same here and i think, well, that’s just fine.

i remember sitting, next to her, on her basement floor. limbs numb and useless, pathetic. i looked her in the eyes.
“im done with the pills. really, this time. im done.”
i used to let her touch my thighs, so in return she answered me with translucent sincerity. the kind of honesty that wears masks.
“you’re just saying that because youre broke.”
this was before all those nights swaying under bathroom lights, clinging to the edges of the tiles on the floor and feeling the rot from in between the linoleum squares collect under my fingernails. i nodded in agreement, because she was right. she was always right, about everything. i learned to accept this and it soon became a comfort.
i remember apologizing. i remember always apologizing. i remember how she pressed her palms on the small of my back, giggling, “are my hands cold?” i shivered and recoiled, sorries spilling out like buttons for the sudden movement. “yes,” sorries spilling out like organs for the lie. your hands were never cold, i just never learned how to deal with the pressure. i still press on my bruises. i still can never get the hang of a temporary tattoo.
if i had the chance i would tell her i missed her. i would tell her how it took me almost ten years to get used to another pair of blue eyes, i would tell her i see her face everywhere. i would tell her how leo died and how ill see her brother soon, isn’t that crazy? isn’t it crazy how i haven’t seen john since you left me? i can see myself now, standing in front of her, skin glistening like vaseline. i see myself harrowed, cut open with glass, insulation spilling out of my guts just like her basement walls and speaking so softly you can barely hear,
“see? i can be soft too, i swear i can be soft too!”

I. I FEAR BEING POINTLESS
     i understand what you say without words,
     i feel your energy,
     i feel it flowing, animate, extending his
     tendrils and writhing like roadkill.
     you stand beside me. retching.
     re-opening wounds in spite of the hands
     that feed you because you just
     don’t have enough teeth to bite with yet and
     you comment on how this is kind of gross,
     isn’t it? the way it oozes like that?
     pulsing in my eardrums, i say no, this is
     beautiful,
     because i can hear what you’re saying
     like a deaf barn dog hears dinner bells

II. I FEAR I WILL BE LEFT BEHIND
     i feel dust caking, dry as soon as it hits the
     sweat on my eyebrow. i try to imagine my
     flesh growing under the weight of it,
     melding together, increasing in mass.
     ive felt heavier lately anyway,
     i keep scratching my legs ‘cause theres
     something in those veins in there, im telling
     you, it breathes at night when it thinks
     im asleep

III. I FEAR MIRRORS AND SCALES
     i keep remembering things i shouldn’t,
     i remember all the daycares ive filtered
     through. i remember (her), and her gameboy
     color and physiological tremor, speaking
     to me through the fruit snacks she fed me.
     i tried telling her how this felt.
     i tried telling her how inhuman i was, how
     something just didn’t feel right, is this
     normal? is this part of growing up?
     do you become an adult when you notice
     what’s missing? no,
     you become an adult when you realize you
     are made to break apart, you become an
     adult when you realize your joints are
     perforated, you become an adult when
     being fearless terrifies you.

(you collect phobias and arrange them on a platter, born from desperation, you feed into them and they respirate knowing you are absolutely nothing without them)

I.
i stopped eating again; ridiculous, i know. i can see myself telling you this, i can see your reaction clear as day. i can

see your chest rise, see your eyes fall, i

remember the way your body moves after all this time. i know the curve of your lips. i know the dimples on your back. i

know what you’d say if you knew everything ive done since you left me. id swallow your silence with toast to keep my tummy from aching; id wrap myself up in your pity like gauze and reflect on my faults while you stare at me through the hair in your eyes that’s growing oh-so-fast because

i did exactly what you told me not to do the last time we talked. im comfortable with the fact that ill never be able to tell you ‘cause

i know you know, id recognize the feeling of your eyes on me anywhere. i think of you when it hits the back of my throat and i laugh when i gag ‘cause i know you would too.

II.
i check the clock and it’s 3:45; five minutes pass and it’s 6 in the morning. time isn’t concrete like a lot of things aren’t and now i snort when i laugh ‘cause i got used to the feeling, sharp inhale, drag forward slow, if you saw me like this you’d just laugh in my face and

i take a drag at 5:34. 40 minutes pass and it’s 5:46. time isn’t concrete like a lot of things aren’t and i wonder if you’ll remember my birthday this year ‘cause im turning 16, ill never catch up to your 17 years. if you saw me like this you’d remind me im stunting my growth .

i press my fingers into peony petals,
feeling their density,
cold, even in summer.

you talk like you mean everything you say.
you feel like the sun, you feel like
warm water in kiddie pools and

grass on bare feet, messy,
muddy, just like the color of your
eyes and

nostalgia tastes sweet but
its hard to wash off of your hands.
summer is just around the corner and

i feel it like ive felt it every year since i was nine.
i allow myself to say that this is more than just a scrape.
i allow myself to realize this hurts so much worse than

falling off my bike.
(gravel in my palms, my mother kissed my bleeding hands and smiled.
this is something she cant heal with neosporin and a kiss on the forehead; the only person who can help me is myself.)

i take baths in peroxide and still dont feel clean,
i wake up in the morning like ive just been reborn,
i think about how everything is so beautiful.

i lay under the peony bush. i let the falling petals baptize me.
i promise my mother that i'll be okay and
for once, i believe it.

i.    now i'll write this in the melodramatic form everyone has been wanting as "no place like home for the holidays" plays in the background and my mother throws my dad outside while punching him relentlessly

ii.     i break my window and put the broken glass in my bag for memories - it's a stereotypical bag of goodies that contain candy canes, broken teeth, cigarettes, and now my shards of glass

iii.     as i scrap my skin on the rough edges of my window, i decided to be the false underdog named santa tonight and give everyone the sickening hope that the fat man that flies in the sky is actually real

iv.     you'll find me breaking into houses looking for a place to stay and if im lucky enough i'll get caught - my hands in handcuffs lieing in a cell is better than nothing, its more of a home than i'll ever have

v.     let's not forget the phone and keys I've left on my disheveled bed as they wait in the cold winds for i do not plan on returning any time soon nor do I plan on surviving this deathly Alaskan night

vi.     my dog nips in the cold and my mother finds the neon green duct tape under my bed to close the window and lock the door with -
shes been crying for so long that her eyes have welded shut - she mistakens the lump on my bed as me when in fact it's suicide notes for everyone I encountered (even the old lady who threw her glasses at me) and the stuffed animals (I've been collecting them over the years, the ones that were given as gifts)

vii.    one thing remains that i should have taken and it's my shoes I had the silly thought that maybe if i went barefoot my mother would follow my snow trail and look for me but no one will come out at night no one will breathe at night it's just me and broken shards