When your father kissed your mother for the first time,
his teeth clacked against hers so hard that her blood curdled like milk.
When your father tried to remove your mother’s dress,
she clutched it to her shoulderblades as tightly as a tourniquet
until he gave up and ripped it off with his fingernails.
Their first date was in a dry riverbed surrounded by the ghosts
of fish who swept through the water thousands of years ago
so cleanly it felt like flight. Your mother wasn’t able to fly
when he pinned her down and tried to breathe her entire body in
like one long exhalation shuddering from the mouth of a person
who doesn’t want to let their last draft of oxygen go.
Their first time together was an apocalypse full of bloody handprints
and your mothers’ palms were the ones saying no.
When your mother and father made you, the latter wanted sex.
The former just wanted to survive.
You were not supposed to exist; you were an insect trapped in amber
with limbs unsure whether they were made of love or hate.
But don’t for one second think the hole you carved into the world
should be filled back in with plaster and hot glue.
It was just made with the wrong tools, that’s all.
The one who holds the hammer is the one at fault,
not the one who was dealt the blow,
or the one who came into being because of the wound.
You are still worth it, you are still worth it.
You are not to blame.