8th BIRTHDAY 

 
When the doctor asks why you don’t sleep / curl on the carpet in the shape of a cursive C / copycat of his cat / a black fat thing with white socks / pretend you are his pet / hide under his desk from your parents when they come to pick you up / pick / at the scabs on your knees to make sure you still bleed / at night you aren’t sure / if you’re dead or not real / in an unfortunate turn of events / your mother takes a Kodak of you and the cat / she frames it / hangs it in the stairwell / at night you point your flashlight at it / see the cat mirrored in you / you mirrored in the cat / your ghost face mirrored in the glass / you feel your teeth are too sharp / your legs are too hairy / sleep all day like the cat / run around at night and knock down all the knickknacks.   

16TH BIRTHDAY 

 
Third wine deep  

You remember your face in the cake.  

You can’t or you won’t  

Remember if this was nice.  

Nice to be sticky nice  

To be joked with like  

A friend. Nice.  

Nice to be nice.  

A nice girl at  

Sixteen.  

 
Later, run as fast as you can, nice girl.  

It’s nice to swing on the swing set  

while a bald man watches 

in a wifebeater  

the nice girls the nice  

Little girls little 

Nice  

Girls 

Swinging.  

 
His shoulders  

The wood chips 

under your hands 

like daggers– 

splinters grabbing.  

Your feet slap the asphalt like gunshots.  

21st BIRTHDAY 

 
You go to the Planned Parenthood on Fourth Street when you think Ken has given you gonorrhea. You remember all the times you shook your head at other girls, I’d never let a man come inside, only you did. You did, and the pink plastic waiting room chairs shackle you to your un-feminist judgments. You remember how he moaned. It doesn’t feel as good with a condom on. Didn’t you want him to feel good? He never made you orgasm, but he had come the closest of anyone so far.  

The nurse in pink scrubs says there is nothing wrong with you. Your pussy just itches. It’s probably the guilt.