emchy

I-96, #137

I.
She was thriteen years old, somewhere between grass stained knees and five hour phone calls when her mind cracked. she began to disappoint everyone

Maybe it started in the year when she was little. ageless. before school started the identifying and classifying of her year after year, when her brother caught the next door neighbor who had been molesting his kid sister

first he confronted her. then their parents
and all she said was it was hugs. just hugs. like he had coached her too
he said he loved her in naked moments in a tree fort. she didn’t know what that meant but knew that telling was bad. and love was good.

He stopped loving her after her parents knew and she knew she disappointed him.
her parents looked at her differently. she knew she disappointed them. her brother took the neighbors place. he threw change on her nightstand after. she knew that she had disappointed him.

She was thirteen years old. trying to love everyone. full of her own failures
in a locker room stained with sweat and memories. She wasn’t a misfit here
had spent time in the womb in this gym. coach mom working right up to birth
learned to crawl and walk on the greasy earth body smell of blue wrestling mats

She was thirteen years old in a locker room that felt like home. a poet punk rocker
in a cheerleading uniform. waiting for the bus to the away game as she swallowed small pieces of hope

112 pieces of hope. that failed her.

When they got to the game she was too sick to cheer
she told the other girls why. and became a disappointing alien

She dialed eleven numbers of hope. “Mom? can you come get me?”
the phone was answered. no. she threw up in the away teams bathroom.

Somewhere on the bus ride back. emptied and hollow. alone on the crowded bus
she smelled like the death she invited. she changed when no one was looking. she was not the same again. virginity gone at five, it was at thirteen that she lost her innocence.

She waited on the sidewalk at the agreed upon time needing like she would burst. 30 minutes late. 40 minutes late. a life taken in the waiting

She begged to herself. please take me to the hospital. don’t make me explain.. the car ride home was deafening. she was thirteen. she asked once and cried. once.

There was no hospital

She turned eighteen and they found a hospital. paying in cash so there wouldn’t be a record. there were no protesters that sunny june day. weddings happened down the street. Mom left while they did it. a good catholic, she went for a drive to buy romance novels

everything was fine.

She woke up and it was over. empty and hollow again. the waiting room. empty and hollow.

She turned eighteen, walked out of the clinic and sat down heavy heat burning down on her shoulders and too black hair. life dying on her skin

She sat on the curb at the agreed upon time. needing like she would burst.
30 minutes late. 40 minutes late. her body rebelling against this casual violence.

she was eighteen. mom wanted to take her shopping after. they left the mall
when she almost bled on the clothes.

They never told her father. she knew she had disappointed them.

She turned 21
there was a marriage
and a church
they were proud

She turned 23
3000 miles later
survival. divorce. queer.

She knew she had disappointed them.