This new ache is on the right half of my rib cage.
Maybe it’s the last knife he left behind. Tucked
away for safe keeping. I am always the ghost
town that people pass through for a scary story
to tell. Because they know I don’t have the guts
to set fire to myself, no matter how many times
the poems mention flames. Instead, I am the
mute girl. Has a voice but can’t work her mouth.
Gestures with her hands too much. Asks if I can
have a pen and paper instead. Uses the pen to
practice impulse control. Uses the pen when I
want to use the razor. Uses the pen when I want
to swallow the pills. I stay in control of my hands.
Most days. I calm the hurricane brewing in my
chest, try to learn this is my own house I’m trying
to destroy. I am a ghost town. I am the unnamed
hurricane. I am ruthless enough to tear apart
anything that stands in my way.