your hands are
a morgue for
the memory
of who I used to
be & I hate it.

i hate the shadows
that follow me in
the night
with your stalky
frame & unforgiving
hands.

I, a year ago, was a
frame of who I used
to be, trying to forget
the people in my life
who missed my ghost
more than
I did.










I cried. screamed.
I promise I fought.
but in the end, I
was a room
without an echo.

so many people used to
tell me that I had a
voice loud enough to
change the world.
but now, I
can’t even write a simple
poem.

in infancy,
I was everything
you had hoped
for in a child,
played a cherub
in our church’s
Christmas pageant,
wore a felt gown
& angel wings tethered
to my back, a halo atop
a mop of blonde colored hair.
it was as if I were finally
worth the title of
beautiful.angelic.
god sent. elegance.
you had finally
worked up enough
magic to procreate
& theorized that
something you made
could finally be an
angel. you threw yourself
so hard to another’s body
you became divine, if only
for a moment.

but you’ve always been
such a skilled poacher.
cut off my wings in slumber
& nailed them
above your head
board. one might
think this is a
brutal comparison
to how you’ve
never learned
to love anything
god sent.

both our knees
are bruised, but we’re
practicing a different
type of prayer. I still
feel a pain in my shoulder
blades from where you cut me,
your hands no longer feel damp
with my blood.
maybe, one day, you’ll hunt me
down, with your poacher’s pride,
& with your rifle, you’ll finally
take more than my wings. &
as I bleed out, a task which may take
days. . . or months . . . or years,
I hope you’ll look me in my eyes
& you’ll remember that even as an
angel, I was once still just your
daughter.