I was born wanting. Things soft like sweets
that melt in the mouth; dolls in princess dresses; the material
things of a wonderful life. Button-nosed like my father
and a head full of curlicues, not a vernix-coated baby
hair was out of place. Eyes brown, skin black, sex female.
We made do in our home, cooking like the church
kitchen my mother was raised in. We said grace
and laid old pets to rest like anyone else. Growing up,
the self was harmed, as selves become. And it harmed,
as selves do. For a while things go right, humming along
and then as if letting go of a final held breath,
they just break. I smiled just as wide anyway.
Wore longer sleeves. Painted my face to look
at something prettier, something I had made.
Some days I chose blue eyelids. Some days
I kept them brown. My hair sizzled under
the flat iron. I learned to love the sound. I burnt
my value to ash and bred it into vanity.
I beat my desire with a bat and threatened it
not to come back home but I’m sure it had
hidden itself in the shed. I walked a blind man
to the subway station and thought,
This is why you don’t help everyone when he thanked me
by squeezing my ass. There are often two kinds
of pain, one held gently inside the other like
a nesting doll. See how well it fits, like laughter
inside slaughter. How the surprise inside is not
one at all but more of a disappointment.
