14 on my birthday

on my birthday

I had thought today

would mean I was free

       from watching my body float upstream

       from watching my blood swim down the drain

       from smiling and pretending

       I didn’t obsess over death.

I had thought today

would mean I was grown

       out of curfews and pink-colored cloths

       out of my favorite jeans

       out of my mind’s spiraling staircase

       into the ground and fire.

I had thought today

would mean I could enjoy life

       like a normal, healthy young adult

       like a sane, pretty girl

       like nothing grabbed my bones

       and pulled me into cold waters.

But I was wrong,

I was wrong, how I was wrong.

       I had thirty minutes to race two miles

       home before Father placed my belongings

       in the front yard,

       in the trash with my dignity.

I had thirty minutes to beat

the setting sun and reddening hue

       of my Mother’s cheeks.

Disobedient child, defiant,

       reckless, careless, ungrateful

       for the two hours of socializing.

I held my knees in the parking lot,

watching the sky blur with tears.

       The pavement was warm,

       hard as the place I was being

       crammed into with my will

       to stay above it slipping.

I could hear my twin speak,

reminding me that Father bluffs,

       like his eyes didn’t slit,

       like his teeth didn’t bare,

       like my Mother didn’t take sides,

       like we weren’t too precious for living.

Stomping my feet, tugging at the strands

atop my head until I whimpered:

       Was I ever going to escape

       the bubble they created?

       Was I ever going to mean something

       more than a puppet?

I was eighteen and on the brink

of meeting my creators

       in the darkness that I was conceived,

       in the empty space that I dwelt,

       as I had done before,

       as I wished for.