at sixteen i wrote a poem that got my guidance counselor called on me.

the poem had ripped itself out of me.

i gave birth to this jagged and bleeding child

the only kind of mother i will ever be.

I did not look back as i sacrificed it to the creative writing gods,

hoping it would be worth an A.

 

I was excused from class three days later.

The counselor that always called me by my sister’s name

first looked at my creation

then me.

the way her eyes drooped in tandem with the edges of her lips in a frown

told me she could not believe that someone so happy

could nurture this horrible beast.

 

“are you okay?” she rasped after the silence stabbed me

piercing the hands that wrote those words over and over

with each second that passed between glances and breaths.

hands folded, lips pursed

my file – my life – are tarot cards spread on her desk

reading into my past present and future,

but even the most in tune minds

cannot find what doesn’t want to be found.

 

“Yes,” I lie with the ease

fit for someone who can paint pain with

black ink in sloppy shorthand.

 

glanced at me as i spoke

then my poem

my file

my family history

back and forth

 

“I hope you’ll tell me if not.”

I nod to please her,

wanting to snatch my child away and hide

so no one can ever find the evidence of my crime.