In my veins,
there is a little girl
shut away in a bathroom.

Because
there is more sense
in porcelain bowls
than any which exists
in other people's
mouths.

In my cup,
there is a broken soul
who stutters her hands
and slits her wrists.

She smells like butterscotch
and a regret that
seeps from every inch
of her blistered body
because of the inch long
squirrel thing
buried in her center.

In my bed,
there is a boy
with nothing to lose.

He smiles too wide
and loves too hard and fast
for anyone else to handle and
for that,
he is sorry.

In my head,
they sing a chorus
of hope and
redemption,

Love us, they said.

Together, we could be a family.