I am the product of my maker
my mothers rain and swollen stomach
her supposed worth; the give and give and give to her take
the pieces of her shattered shadow hidden under the rug
waiting to be found and swept away
I am my fathers ignored dependence
The splitters given and the fires created
The nail in my bookshelf,
The red-faced runner
The understaled challah bread from the christan baker
I don’t want to be dragging this dried ink forever
I want to strip and feel winter hold me
Like a crying baby
Gasp and emerge
No longer 17
Please god
Hold me under the melted snow
Where my bare feel can feel rock and solidity
Where I can wash away my maker from my numbed skin
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