when the dollop of ink that was once my appendix was scooped from above my hip
almost drowning in the riptide off Vero Beach, receiving tonsillitis as penance
when I had sex for the 157th time
when you died and were resuscitated
as a decree of manhood never had, I struck my father in the ball of his heel, a calloused winkle of blood
when I realized I was trans
getting drunk for the first time and texting everyone I loved that I loved them, which I never do
when you died again
this time, for real, I won the spelling bee at school, “argument” as the winning word
the second time I won, my parents still wouldn’t let me go to regionals
when you weren’t given a funeral
I, too, have tried killing myself, but remembered a song about selling out one’s funeral, and taped a worm of gauze to my arm to suck out regret
winning a poetry award
winning a poetry award because of writing about your death
not hearing you applaud
not hearing you
the one time I cut down a tree, higher than the pastel ceiling of October, with an axe, wondering if the white birch remembers me
when I heard the woman inside my body speaking
when she said her name and I saved a whole paycheck on my end table to legally make it mine
we celebrated half a decade without you
crowd surfing limbs of sweat toward silhouettes of neon before being dropped on my neck
discovery of masturbation
not paying attention to crosswalk signs for a month
stole your necklace once, chattering beads from the trouthead in my pocket, and after you told me you weren’t mad when you found out, buried it beneath the leaves and silt of Chandler Lake
