You fell into my head, after

the health class I took in sixth grade.

All those photos

And ribs

And ankles

And corners; they were ravenous

And starving. I think I was too.

You climbed inside my stomach and clawed and

Scratched. You leaked the poison to my legs and

To my head. You shoved my finger down my throat

And grabbed at every part of me

That showed. You folded me up

And tucked my heart into

My pocket. I was a tiny slip of paper

That you cut at and taped and tore

And stained. You boiled me in showers

While you pointed at the bones that didn’t show.

I wasn’t sharp enough

For you. I wasn’t a perfect plaything. So you climbed the ladder

to my soul and screamed until my fat

Bled itself away

And the numbers melted down. My body echoed and rang with your shrill voice

That forever sounded. But at last

You were satisfied

And gone too quickly. There was a gaping hole in my chest

Where your whispers should have been. A gap

Between my thighs where you should have been yelling.

I am crumpled and ripped and

Scribbled all over. You broke me and left me a

Mangled paper crane.