My mother stopped saying I’d meet a nice boy once I became one.
My father stopped smiling once the sun glared
in my fangs like a prism window to god’s tongue.
I only lied once about being in love and it’s when
she travelled for two days and sat on my floor,
I felt barometers drop to their knees
and I should have said, “I could love you someday
but you have to pass some literacy exams;
I’ve got an ancient text scrambled beneath my ribcage
and we need to see if your stone is Rosetta or first-cast.”
She took a plane back and gets sick when she reads these poems,
Still think this is funny?
Hear them all groan under the weight of words at night.
Are you reading this too,
knowing I am a phantom limb?
I worshiped you like the moon, you deemed me
timely and appropriate for mutilation.
Leave your lovers better off than they were when you found them,
I etched into the arms of every one,
pick up the garbage they left behind in my
and charred ash under my eyes.
I have been laughing for no reason,
and it has been eight months since I didn’t care to die.