what it's like to write again.

March 27, 2012
Momma bathed me in the kitchen sink
with cheap dish soap, surrounded by yellow walls
She said I ripped her insides apart during birth
and cried for days on end



I sat in the audience during her High School graduation
A loud child, barely a year old









I know sometimes she looks back
Tells me not to have kids,
Tells me to wait until I’m grown, ‘cause no young boy wants a baby.

And yet, always tells me that I was planned
Something she wanted, needed
Something you’re supposed to lie to your children and say









You’re not a mistake.










but I guess if I could wish on stars
I would go back to when I was a kid

Cause if I knew how I got this far,
I’d hurt Daddy
after asking him what life is.





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