Your name,


uterine lining

(with a better than

average chance

of accompanying

cancer cells),

thinning hair,

and fierce

French tongue,

the worry,

and that extra

large gap between

my breasts

all came from you.


The choice to

run away

to Grand Central Station

after my soccer

coach raped me,

only to return

to no empty seats

here at lunch

in 10th grade,

and to put a towel

under my door

(to keep the Lucky

Strike smoke

from emanating

down the dark hallway

to you sobbing

by the porcelain

kitchen sink)

all came from me.