i. My mother's elbows. They
are too sharp and they twitch
in the direction of your ribs
when you invade
her personal space.
ii. Needing anything too much. Cutting
or writing or even
my own friends.
iii. Fast rides down mountains. I
remember each one, looking
out the window, wondering if
tonight was the night
finally we would go
plunging over the tiny
railing.
iv. Gangs of little kids. Don't
tell me they don't know
what they are doing. Children
are cruel.
v. Metaphors of fists raining down
all over your body. I'm
sorry, I cannot listen
to your metaphors, when
they make my skin tingle and
my hackles raise and
my heart play out the dance
of old fears.
vi. Anyone having leverage. Too
many times, showing caring
for a thing has seen it
confiscated. Also, anyone knowing
I care at all.
vii. Discovering that the scars gifted
to me are not healed and
long car rides and
her elbows and
cruel children and
impending addictions and
openly loving and
your metaphors make
me bleed along
old fault-lines.