You can’t fill these cracks in me with cement or plaster
or good intentions and there’s nothing to be done about
the earthquakes that routinely disrupt this rubble that’s left.
This blood is not on your hands. You can wrap me up
in bandages and cinch together my frayed edges with your
stitches but it doesn’t mean I’m healed just because
you’ve staunched the bleeding. I’ve been a train wreck
since my daddy left, since my mother told me little girls
don’t cry over bad blood and dark hearts. What am I
when these tears just won’t stop and I’ve filled up oceans
with the pain it’s caused me but in the morning she says
"good morning, my little girl" and I harbor these secrets
like bullets in my mouth. They taste like copper and
horror and I think I’ve had them there my whole life,
clenched between my grinding teeth while I sleep and
dream these nightmarish things.