Persona

Before I had language, I laughed: How many men does it take to build a house? How many women are left to make the beds?

I played on a crooked bridge, walked the planks until the suspension gave, and rusted bolts caught my skin. I ran home, bleeding.

Before I owned cliché, I pushed my baby in a stroller and tucked her into her crib. I was five and licking the beaters of someone else’s

cake batter. I picked each cherry from the pie and left its shell untouched. This is how I learned to want everyone

to want to understand me. By the time I was old enough to dissect meaning from the body, the windows

had been sealed shut. I began separating yolks from their whites, seeds from their hulls, and now

I can finally taste leaves loosening from their branches. I roll in the dirt that will catch them.