I used to dig my fingers in the dirt and pull out onions -

scrape the layer clean with cold water and bite down,

happy with flavor on my tongue - I'd dig for clams

on the seashore and float on the serf in my Captain

Hook raft and use a piece of driftwood against the

waves so I didn't go out too far. I remember holding

onto the side of a boat, with my father laughing at my

fright while we navigated the Cedar River. I always

loved the ocean but rivers and lakes seem unnatural

to me. I found a pocket knife buried in the heavy sand

once; red leather sheath and cold silver - I hid it away

and kept it on me in case of emergencies - I remember

sitting at a table (the curves of my youth just learning

how to straighten themselves properly) and listening to

a boy talk about the angles of my face, and how the high

cheek bones and long lips would change me, as though

my future were decided not by fate but my fear of waiting.

I became a thirteen-year-old runaway; she-thing who couldn't

take it. I would have left and never come back had Ritchey

not found me, had he not kissed me with his Marijuana flavored

lips in the woods, had I not learned that the roar of my femininity

was a weapon that I could weld with just as much damage

as the pocket knife that fate had buried long ago for me to find.

I have a strong sense for the end - listened to death rattles,

woken up to bad news, cried at the sight of his blue lips

when they said he would never move again.

They tell me that to hate others, is really to hate yourself, but

my bitterness at the chains tattooed onto me kept me breathing

for as long as I have. I don't call my father Dad anymore!

I hate the boy who put his hand over my mouth and threatened

me with silence (the last, and only other time that I was hushed!)

I hate the place I grew up in because it only recognizes the person

that I used to be, rather then who I have become!

I hate war (the thick masculinity and dollar signs that fuel it)

I really hate it when you tell me to be quiet. Regret is just another

form of silence, and I regret that underneath it all I don't regret

anything. I remember the blue dress torn, the purple ring shining.

Your hands in my hair, my tongue smoothing across your lips

(my own blade burning) I remember the front end of my car

slamming into me during the car crash, I remember the weightless

heaven that kissed me like a hellish hunger. Black on black - blister

the insight that I give you - don't be like me unless you fear it -

become - decrease - distinguish - diverge - freak out,

because the reality is that I missed so much while in the

pursuit of things (un) experienced. Bars on my window -

bars on my body - scowl at the idea of things icy and vindictive -

gratitude for how you shifted me - or maybe how I shifted myself -

misery like a storm, to topple myself and remain (Fetal) and shiver.

There was never a middle to ground me; just the beginning bathed

in the burning bright burden of an accident that grew in my mothers

womb (name her for her beauty, because we wanted her so much).

I'll I have now is the end; essentially (un) explained.