I know a boy who called his girlfriends body a crime scene. I know you think that girl is me,

but she's not,

at least not because of you.

So let me finish, I need to get this out.

Dad, my body is crime scene.

They broke me dad,

kind of like when you broke Majaiha's mom's eye socket.

Remember?

Or are we supposed to be over that?

Only spoken about in hushed whispers when your temper starts to flair,

my own mother's memories began to start sprouting like fresh grass in the spring.

How am I supposed to look at you Dad?

But anyway, back to me, Dad.

I think I'm all used up.

I think I’m the grit under a construction worker’s fingernails,

the grease stains on a white shirt,

the dirty part of the snow parents warn their children not to eat,

the girl who only looks good in pictures.

I read about two little girls in the paper,

they couldn’t have been more than twelve and fourteen in age, Dad.

They kind of reminded me of Majaiha and I.

Their father crushed their mother like a cherry in a strong jaw.

Split her head open and searched for his father between her legs,

or maybe he was searching for himself.

I read his testimony, Dad. I’m pretty sure it was both.

It opened me, Dad.

It made me sick, Dad.

After I heard of it, I started to walk like an apology.

Isn’t that what women are supposed to do?

I’m growing up Dad, I know things now.

My body is a spill no one wants to clean up.

My body is a fetus in a biohazard tank.

I think I’m hurt and used up, Dad.

I think I played the tough girl for too long. I want a new movie role, Dad.

Where’s the gag reels? Where’s the extended scenes? Where’s the directors cut? Where’s the yellow tape?

My body is a crime scene.

My body is a small thin cracker on a golden plate, a soft melt on a choir boy’s tongue.

There are so many things I’m not allowed to tell you, Dad.

My skin can barely keep me inside.

I want to be wanted.

I couldn’t get the boy to love me, but I wore his jacket for a month or two.

I didn’t love him,

or anyone for that matter.

I just like the thought of having a sense of control over something for once in my life.

I want to be tender and merciful, but I’m much more like you than I’d like to admit.

That’s what mother says anyway.

“You’re just like your father.”

My hands keep turning into birds,

and they keep flying away from me.

“Do you love yourself?”

I don’t have to answer that. Do I? Dad?

My fingers belong to someone else. They don’t want to be attached to me.

Nothing does.

Something inside me is igniting.

A spark, I just can’t seem to put out.

There’s a hornet’s nest in my head, and they're a couple of angry sons of bitches.

They won’t stop stinging.

I’m like you, Dad.

I’m angry, I want to hurt things.

I want to crush boys in my mouth like cherries.

I don’t hate you Dad,

I don’t hate men either,

I promise.

-k.w.