The first time I drank cough syrup I couldn’t get enough.
It was better than vodka and slid down my throat
like an apricot. Those were the days I sat out in the garage
with all the lights off and the doors closed,
waiting either for death to find me or something to pull
me back from the edge.
The first time I saw a wound it was on my own body,
and there were scissors in my bed that hadn’t
been there before.
The silverware began to escape from the drawers,
filling up the bathtub and pouring over the countertops.
I learned to eat with my fingers,
or not eat at all.
The first time all the glass light bulbs in my house shattered
I was old enough to grow tired of their sharp edges
digging into my skin,
but young enough to crave it.