My life is organized by the woman I am in love with,
the god I am worshiping, the therapist I’m seeing;
my thoughts are not mine, and my heart is plastic
set out in the sun too long - red plastic like a child’s
toy. The child is long since gone, and the house
is collapsing from the heaviness of that child’s
secrets. But what’s a heart to a place like this?
Everything is packed, and I am left behind.
The scars of the mother are surely covered by
the communion dress, and the hands of the lover
are dangerous ones. She is throwing rosaries
out into the river. This is no place for us,
she screams. I shut my eyes. I am not here,
but I feel the water moving up my legs.
The hands of the lover are my hands. I look
beautiful on my christening day.
Spiraling is a term therapists’ use when you
enter the hospital again; I didn’t mean to be
that girl that you hate so much. I pick my skin
until there is no skin left. I look like a little alien
child. The parents point at me in the hospital,
surely she isn’t ours. She must belong to somewhere
else. The nurses all feel bad for me; I feel bad
for me too, me in my hospital gown.
I got a text message from God. He says that
he isn’t real and that I should leave him alone.
The father snatches my phone from my hands,
I am the only man you need. The man with the
scary smile; the sounds of the father are covered
by the howls of the daughter, the tiny wolf thing.
I tuck my suicide letter into my copy of Harry Potter,
just like a good girl should. You are bad, she tells me.
I don’t remember feels funny in my mouth.
My lips brush against the microphone;
they are all staring at me, all the people who
saw the flyers in the town, the people with
the shiny, fake bodies and long dragon tongues.
I… my brain is shutting down, all the memories
scatter like scared mice. I want to remember,
but my red plastic heart is withering in my chest.