When Papa told me to fix this
before the glass cuts me, I replied,
“there are loves that kill.”
He watches me watch the cracks
and knows that I am
thinking of you
again, I dirty my hands in your garden soil against his wishes.
O fruit! another injection from your tree,
and I stumble beneath thee (and thy) kisses.
Blood seeps, unknown, a stranger on my skin.
You know what they say about women
who don’t belong anywhere they’ve
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.