I grew up believing that making myself small
was the key to fixing my broken family.

I broke my bones and cut off my limbs
So I could squeeze inside their box.
I made myself into something I never was,
Manageable, bite-sized pieces.
I made myself easy to digest.

If I was able to be less of myself,
I would make others whole.

I believe I was the key to a mangled, unfixable lock.
And all I had were bruised knuckles
And black eyes
And a butchered body lacking love.