By 3 months a fetus has developed its own
unique set of fingertips and by 10 it's supposed
to have developed a sense that s is loved--

so why am I 12 years old and feeling
like no one could ever love a body
as scarred as mine? I am a flower and I

am my own sun but I'm 12 and I haven't found that
yet. You're the fat clouds that drop
hot rain on my forehead and I do not

realize that too much water bogs roots down,
severs the nodules that keep it down. Rips
it from the ground so that I have no earth.

I am 12 and I have my first F and I'm
sick deep down because I know that it's
all I'm worth. My mother has

taught me how to love--with poisoned fire,
with words that speak of anything but.
And I scramble to avoid blaming you

for the 4-foot child that thinks
death is the ultimate prize, I refuse to
face your cruelty and call it abuse.

You'll never be out of the rain, they would
say--you'll find a dry patch, friends,
love but you'll never be out of the

downpour, hand-me-down hate cascading
in rivulets so much like blood.
"Family" is a bad word that turns my veins cold

but I will tell you that I love you, and I'll
get the words back, sandwitched between
bouts of rage and nights of crying myself awake.

I may never leave the shadow of your claws but
I will cling to this semblance of me that I've dusted
off of filthy bookshelves, piles of clutter, and sunlight,

do anything to keep it from crumbling
under the force of our years. I
am my own mother. I am my own sun.