but at 13, the scissors slipped.
My insides ventured out and squinted
in the light.
Stars, enormity, light stomachs, fluttering, me, you.
Every person is a blowfish, and every
morning a validation.
She: paper chains, longer than I thought. You:
clothes made of locked doors and parallels,
and I: out by the river, the only quiet place
I could think of.
A cold blade, the water; my feet,
the renewal of winter, the twist
of a Coke cap, the forgetting of absolved sins,
the slick rocks kicked
gently along the bed.
Voices. A voice.
I confess, I have at times wished for Hell,
if only to be alone for a while.
But a doe on the other bank
reminds me of my need.