the first time i walked across the golden gate bridge
i was too young to appreciate it
and too old to hold my sister’s hand.
now i read about the people who throw themselves off it
and imagine the universes hidden in each person’s head.

i’m not afraid of the things that go bump in the night.

once, a turkey bit my sister.
i have read more romance novels than i can count.
i have taped bandages over cat scratches,
and i have given important words to unimportant people.

i once taught a little kid how to spell assassin.
i have lived in eight different houses but never felt at home.
i’ve kissed boys,
and i’ve kissed girls.
i thought i was in love once.
i liked squirrels until i got too close to one.

i’ve avoided the south.
i’ve walked three extra blocks just to avoid a church.
and i have been burned at the stake.
i’ve felt flames on my thighs and ropes on my wrists,
and i’ve walked away with scars.
and, in the winter,
i’ve jumped into more rivers than i can count.

i lost my sense of humor this year.
i lost the little kid,
but i still cry when i spill my coffee.

once, i had rabbits.
i was eight when i found them
near the compost pile
laying in a puddle of blood.
when i was five i was nearly trampled by cows.
when i was seven, i almost drowned.

but i still breathe.
i still paint my nails black and sleep without resting.
i still bite my lips till they bleed,
and sometimes i wonder what i’ll look like with white hair.
i wear suspenders every chance i get,
and i try to shut doors quietly.

i will drink sweet coffee every morning until my heart stops beating.
i’m still waking up, though.