i try to scratch my way out of my skin. not for the sake of self mutilation but more of a last minute attempt at glory and self restoration. it does not work. it means the girl stays a pitiful girl and the apple stays where it is: hanging from a tree. it's funny that way, when things don't fall like you intend them to. makes destruction even more beautiful. it's not to romanticize ruination and its ugliness—it's just all so familiar to me it's as if it's actually my mother tongue. this poem reflects that and my father's eyes do too. i suppose this cracked foundation made its way into my palms for when i create, i destroy. and the girl is a girl that is sick of it.
YOU ARE READING
I, Girl
Poetryi am my own god, my own spirit, my own prayer. -- a complete series of 44 poems concerning girlhood, dread, and catholic guilt.
