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When I was fifteen, I hated everything except for Weezer and maybe like two people. And cereal. One time a boy grabbed me in the music room and kissed my neck in front of everybody. I did not want to be kissed, but I thought I was supposed to want to be kissed. I did not know what to do. And so I laughed. I knew you were supposed to laugh after things like that The world had taught me to dress up my trauma in short skirts and secret bathroom crying, to protect the fragility of boys at all costs
When I was five, my father molested me you become a strange human that way You cannot whip yourself awake as a child I should have been born a bird
When I turned six, I stopped talking.
When I was twenty-five and my name was on the radio, I asked people to write poems and send them to me Maybe because I was starved of honest humanity Half of the poems were about slit wrists
I do not want to know any more about this brand of humanity. All I know of love is hunger.
When I met you, I planted my heart into the heavy earth. I was scared, But you smiled back. Thank God I was not born a bird.
