Forty-Five

The thought of pulling my eyes outjust crossed my mind.How Oedipal of me.

Penis envy must dig deep—as in: it is a grave.

My son, four years old,gives me until forty-five to be alive.That’s rough newssince I’m forty-two as of today.

I’m running on a trackwith a train catching up to me.It’s going to hit me soon.

Words are not my first language.Speech has always felt awkward—a little like chewing on the fuzzof a vegetable gone bad.

My first language is dance.Moving my limbs and bodyis how I speak.

I am out of my elementin this word space.

“What?”“I wouldn’t have those problemsif it weren’t for your father.”“Fuck your father.”

The last text messages I sent my daughter.She was asking about chemical dependency.I had just woken up, hung over.

I betrayed her emotions.She would forever be unsafeemotionally around me—I am a threat to her integrity.

I knew this when she was one years old.

Dolly had smudged smoky-lined eyesthat I thought were remarkable.Possibly induced from all the LSD,I found out later.

When my daughter was just over one,Dolly came to visit.I had left my writingup on the computer screen.I wanted her to see it.

She said it was gross.It broke my heart.

I wasn’t trying to prove myselfas a writer—I was begging for help.Post-partum depression landslideand I just wanted help.

Every hand I reached forswatted me awaylike I was an insector something worse.

I’m writing because I need revengeagainst Dolly, against my ex-husband,against the part of the worldthat shoved me awayand continues to tryto shove me away.

This is my revenge.