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 par