I used to know how to write about my body,
how to take this amalgamation of memory
and harness it into something beautiful
but somewhere along the lines I lost myself.

lately I have been hiccupping at the edge of a knife
nerves running rampant beneath my skin
nothing to say to this pain threating violence to this body.

I try to look grief in the eyes these days
but inside I am still that small fragile girl
wishing ripped hair follicles were the only thing
falling apart on this body.

But I have made a mess of not feeling
not writing, just running away from
the knife that begs to cut me open.

I have kept it so close to my chest
never wanting to see how this trauma
could exit so tragically
due to a single memory.

but here I sit, hand full of hair
blade to my forehead
wishing this childhood was
just a nightmare I could wake up from.

and the knife isn't real
but the memories still are
so still I sit
hands empty, chest aching
at all they have done to me.

take and take and take
this body that still after 29 years
doesn't feel like it belongs to me.

So I return
knife to paper
pen to paper
fingers to keys
wishing I could make something
beautiful
out of
my own
remembering.