day 9

Damning My Vertebrae

It wasn't until I turned six that my mother realized I couldn't shit.
I spent toddler years avoiding it—took too much time,
letting a pancake form kept me in control.
My mother would shake her finger and yell as I drove circles
in a Barbie Jeep, frustrated I wouldn't cave to the body.

We tried suppositories, syringes shoved up with chemicals
bubbling inside, as if I was an older male.
My mother watched my insides on a screen, pointed
and gasped in awe while I attempted to caulk my body
together like tiles on my bathroom floor, cemented an anger
inside my body—built a home for the hatred I couldn't let out.

For years, I’d push, push, push at myself, slam
literal walls until everything fell away except for those
holding my insides together. I ached to slice down the small
intestine, crawl inside and glue parts together, inject
my veins to die—anything to keep my body from itself.

My mother blathered on about details of a will she didn't need yet,
and I studied markings in her ceiling tiles and hardwood,
pissed about how archeologists deciphered skeletons without codes,
about how my body didn't have it’s own codes, even after my doctor
touched my toes together and watched me clench my eyes in pain.

I ache, but to carve out the anger my body builds.
There is no knife for this. If I could climb inside myself,
there would be no chipping away— lovingly, gentle.
There would only be TNT and hatred, damning
my vertebrae to another type of Hell where everyone’s in pain.