the bathroom is an ode to violence

in the summer months, my hair grows long
i stand in the bathroom
twisting strands between fingers
my mother tells me
[I] [look] [beautiful] [,]
                                        [again] [.]
i hate how i look like someone that
i do not want to be

in the summer months, i see my friends
every other week
we pile into houses – always the same 2
sticky counters &
                                board games &
                                                            bad movies &
                                                                ­                      bad jokes
my friends tell me i look handsome
                                                        ­       i need a haircut
i like myself better when
i can be someone they like

in the summer months, i spend most time in the bathroom
staring at my reflection in the mirror
a million versions of me
                                           dig into my skin
i do not remove them
i just want to –

in the summer months, tupperware containers line
the sink-top/
counter-top/
bathroom cabinet
                               each one a sign of my failure
drip
        drip
                 drip
blood from my
teethtonguecheekgummouth
the containers overflow

[I will never get the stain out of the tiles.]

the bathroom is an ode to violence

I raise a container to my lips,
&
Drink.

i often think –  
that if i were not as gullible,
                                                   as trusting  
my Father would not hurt me.

it is never as simple as something like that.

my first name – chosen name, preferred name
kept the same initial  
as my dead one –  
                                  so we still had that in common
so He would still love me.

i will never come out to my Father
/
He will never stop hurting me

they mean the same thing, really