The day I drunk   dialed you
Was the way   I burnt    the trail
I built    to reach   you.

My eyes still look for you
On sixth floor balconies    all
Over town.

If I were   coded
like a machine    would you be able
to solve   me out and    see all my   sins  ?
Maybe   you weren’t the    bad one    to begin with

The good   est     girl    
Sometimes    the smartest   and
I was taught to  be ambitious   and
Although    he wanted us to be tough, somehow
We ended   up weaker than    we ever
Thought we’d be      so brittle     we cry
When strangers    get angry at us    like
When    we went to Atlantic City
And decided to sit in different seats     and the
Whole bus     yelled   and inside, well
I knew they were right       about
Us being wrong
I was   my father’s daughter     before
I even knew     who I was

What was I dreaming   about?
A cabinet   full   of sad secrets    must
Have been      before you woke   me up
Screaming,  frenzied    because
Of a big   flea you found    at the corner
Of your bed      where is mama?   I asked
You were   shaking    and I was too   but
You    were scared   about the  flea   and
Whether   it had gotten   so fat   because
It was   feeding   on you  
All this time    and I found
Mom on the couch, covered up in thick
Blankets     i was shaking too
As I saw her   asleep     cause
She never sleeps.

How exactly  it happened
not so sure   but before you knew it
I had blown up like a blow fish
and round like a plum, i got red
at the truth
in your remarks

The nonsense remarks our fathers tell us, for example:
We are all beautiful inside and we must get a
good education. Well, for the most part, they are right.
But my father also    mocks   the sound of
my   tears   and    when I
eat      my mother  strikes my hand  as I
grab for   a piece of naan   or something
like, you can imagine.    I feel weak at
times despite the   calories,
like a shriveled berry.
Sometimes,  I call a boy
when my eyes have dried  so as to not disrupt
a balance. I am sure he may feel
lonely at times, but he runs and
absorbs himself in his sciences
and religious texts.
Me?      I am a rat girl who digs
old things from their hideouts in my room.    My old
stories and fantasies
of a prince who reads my hidden letters,
finds them first actually,
instead of my brown hand          pulling          his ear          toward
me.  Me, saying softly:
look
inside
here.