Teacher asks me to speak, asks me to
sigh, asks me to be dramatic & shy (please?).
Nobody ever says please. In my mind a crane
is shifting and juddering to a halt. I’m the girl
sprawled breathless, drawing herself nude.
I host a fashion show in a dark room,
flashlight bouncing off the walls. I thought
Teacher would like it: the privacy, the quiet.
I thought she would want the fabrics,
(before) tearing, (after) displayed. But Mom wears
the clothes home & I watch her change into another
dress, lipstick staining front teeth, tongue hiding
from a man in a black suit. I thought she enjoyed
it slow & soft. Tried inhaling in an room full of
people and I stopped crashing into the artwork.
I'm too busy ripping up paper to do my homework,
I CAN’T HELP THE OBSESSION, I screamed
at a class full of students once. Anchor sinking
under the weight of my fear, dress puddling
around thinning hips. We don’t speak about death
says Mother and I talk about shredded cheese/
obscure literature / mind warping & breaking/
hovering and swallowing itself whole. In art class
I paint a self-portrait: head swallowed by a
black hole suspended from the ceiling,
bird flitting through memory gaps.
I don’t know who I am, I said when Mother
asked why I drew something so savage.