You marked my height on the wall in that little space
between the coffee-colored door and the scratched window.
Day one I was assessed to be seventeen inches long
and six point fourteen pounds,
and my blood was given a B-plus
just like my mother was a few decades before me.
You were designated to hold my little hand as we went on trips
up and down the east coast.
We went to a place where all dreams come true,
but yours weren’t able to.
I can’t remember a time when the people who gave me life
had the ability to be a part of this double-edged world,
and were both happy with each other and able to get past
the problems they created.
Once I reached year thirteen,
I was no longer excited to look at the numbers on the scale
or the marks on the wall
because it meant I was closer to reaching a point in my life
when I could no longer be considered your baby girl.
I became thrilled to see the color of crimson
quickly drip from a pale surface
and mix with the clearness of water.
You thought I was messing around with Grandma’s rose bushes
in the backyard,
but I was planning my escape from a world that looked dark.
I couldn’t bring myself to end everything
because I had you still.
Now I’m approaching year sixteen,
and you don’t hold my hand in the back seat anymore
because I’ve moved up to the wheel,
and you’re just a ghost back there
whispering in my ear the jokes that would make me laugh until I cried.