Dear Mother and Father,


You think it would be easier

        especially by now

But shedding skin hurts

        tearing out all the old, it burns.

It burns the back of my throat

        like flames shooting down my spine

Why is it so hard to rid myself of things I am (not)?

        a tooth lodged in between the floorboards

        a piece of graphite that has lived inside my hand since I was seven

Why does my blood still boil as it did when I was fourteen?

Why do I still cry over the smallest things?

        a hole in the wall

        a pile of broken glass

        a pink bathtub stained with blood

        How long can I hold my breath?

Although I act like my father and his father and his father

I am my mother.

I am soil.

A combination of various ticks and kicks

        beryl and beetles 

        lemon peels and pumpkin seeds

        three dead dogs

        forgotten doll parts

        fossils of those before me

        blood

Thick dirt that grows the prettiest and deadliest flowers.

        My roots are your scars,

        My scars are yours too

I was born with them,

        a silver pickup truck

        an undying orange tree

Lift me up, just one more time.

I can see you now,

        Through my viewfinder

        You’re standing on the front lawn with the old cat

I can see it all.