I am Not a Lesbian because I Hate my Father

It's cold outside.

I'm turning nine and

the air is too still for even dull breath, but

I manage to slice my throat on ice shards as I scream.

We have no time here,

not for winter,

not anymore.

There is no ice,

only February

(every year it's warmer.)

White dust is falling,

settling upon my scalp.

The ceiling plaster crumbles beneath violent feet and

I'm about 11 and by now I know:

the snow never makes it

to the ground.

only I do.

I've learned to walk on my hands.

My blistering feet stain the hardwood.

Smoke rises

and I have grown tired of

charring my shoes on the floor.

At recess the air's a bit cooler,

farther away from the iron hearth.

Not everyone's world is on fire but the flames never seem

to leave me for long.

All the wood chips are damp with melted snow

and I want someone to chase me.

I terrorize boys;

take their sneakers from their feet.

They don't care about me, but I

am smart enough to know by now:

leverage is required to get what you need.

There is a gaping hole in my gut,

my father left it there,

it's on the brink of caving in and I

do not have enough flesh to fill it.

Please, lend me yours.

I beg.

I need them to know

that I

am something to be desired.

I need them to want

to pour themselves into me to

save my collapsing self.

God knows I alone,

am not enough.

Ice melts to glass now

distilling in my throat

and its sharp edges

(as opposed to another's flesh)

have filled the aching void

behind my ribs.

It all comes crawling

back up my esophagus as I force

the weight to peel off my skin.

Can I make them want me if I shrink

small enough to be a child?

I sink my body in the muddy ground and pray it freezes over

but the angels went extinct with the snow and

I continue to grow older.