My mother wore wigs and drank bourbon on Sundays
while my father worked across the street
I'd watch him from my bedroom window
sewing, stapling
hammering out frustrations I couldn't name
I called my sister David
because I wanted a brother
and a different family
My mother called my father Jesus
because she said he thought he was perfect
"Jesus, cut the grass."
"Jesus, take out the trash."
"Jesus, just ******* do it."
I'm grown up now
my name isn't Stupid Girl anymore
I've inherited my mother's rage
and my father's heavy sighs
Dark days I find myself thinking
my finger tracing the rim of a shot glass
you can't outgrow
what you're made of
And I feel inside of me
the breaking of glass
My sister writes me long letters from New York
she signs them all
love, David
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 7:59 PM UTC
My mother wore wigs and drank bourbon on Sundays
while my father worked across the street
I'd watch him from my bedroom window
sewing, stapling
hammering out frustrations I couldn't name
I called my sister David
because I wanted a brother
and a different family
My mother called my father Jesus
because she said he thought he was perfect
"Jesus, cut the grass."
"Jesus, take out the trash."
"Jesus, just ******* do it."
I'm grown up now
my name isn't Stupid Girl anymore
I've inherited my mother's rage
and my father's heavy sighs
Dark days I find myself thinking
my finger tracing the rim of a shot glass
you can't outgrow
what you're made of
And I feel inside of me
the breaking of glass
My sister writes me long letters from New York
she signs them all
love, David
