I am the cockroach in the kitchen that
you sprayed with Raid I am the thousands
of cockroaches living below your linoleum I
crawl across the counter into drinks and
ashtrays I eat your scraps and trash you
leave me no choice but to scavenge
cabinets on late nights I make myself
scarce when you flip on the lights I
wish I didn’t have to hide in my own
home to survive but I want to live—
I’m not afraid to die but I don’t want
you to know my insides smeared
on the bottom of your shoes

This is my sanctuary.
Peeled paint from book case,
vanity smeared with fingerprints,
carpet stained with vomit: these
are all the ways I mark it.
When I want to feel safe,
I close the door and lock it.
I use blankets to block the light
and sound that slips from reaching
your eyes and ears. I know you stand
outside my room and press your ear
against my door. Your footsteps back
and forth along the hall track
four-hundred beats an hour. You want
to hear something damning, like tears
falling, skin rubbing, knives
cutting—
How unlucky for you that I’m
sworn to silence! And so, too, are
the walls.

I developed early.
My outer
petals
unfurled before my
stamen
extended. I am
always mommy when
we play house. I know
you don’t mean to hurt me,
pin me with your mouth, make me
dirty. Even so,
I won’t forgive you.
In the bath, you suck
memories from flesh, all the sweet ones, and
spit into the water before
it all slips down the drain.
What a waste.

I hide the bodies in the closet because
My sister doesn’t want to carry
out the dirty work of disposal.
When I see the corpses, I feel something bad,
like an itch I can’t scratch
both within and outside my flesh.
So I keep the bodies in the closet.
Imagine their not-flesh, bent limbs,
shorn heads, and tell me what
you’d do knowing they were
so close to your bed that they
heard your dreams. Frocks are
not enough to hide scary bits,
not enough to cover cracking joints,
ball segments of hip flexors I broke
with my hands just for fun.
I fear they will retaliate,
angry that I shoved them in plastic bags and
buried them below old blankets.
When I sleep they invade my bed
like zealous mice, and I wake
eye to eye with the girls I dismembered
before I knew the word.
But what can they do to me, really?