When I was fourteen my priest stopped Communion in the middle of the service
just to tell me my body was an abandoned building
and it would burn down if I didn’t start building safety nets for myself.
I still have difficulty passing by churches, even in the car with my hands pressed
to the window as if only the glass could hold me in.
I’ve grown used to the way my body betrays me with its silent urges,
how my heart hungers for things it does not know
and never will again. Once I pressed my fingers into the soft indent
of a boy’s knees and learned that some apologies never get accepted.
He wanted to fuck me; I wanted to sting him like a bee.
Tell me there was a difference between the two.
In second grade I researched stem cells and their relation to cancer,
but all I could think about was the way afternoon light spills
through the window like wet hair.
Even now I still find ringlets in my pillow, tucked between the sheets
and the cover where things can only be discovered
if they want to be.
I learned at such a young age
that if love is hunger,
then I’m starving.