For Girls With Crooked Spines

Let’s not make this pleasant.

I don’t want to sigh or breathe my memories into you;

I want to spit them into you.

I want to set you on fire with all that I’ve felt,

and watch you writhe in the burning pain that is me.

I will not put you out until I’ve charred your skin

and can peel it from the bone with ease,

just as you have done to me.

To be clear, I refuse to be pretty.

I want the blood to stay under my fingernails

and the bags under my eyes to darken.

I am not the daisy-freshness of spring.

I am grotesque.

I am skin

and bone

and blood

and bile

and spit.

Request permission to use this poem