“It is not your fault”
Being carved into
Your memory for the first time
Imagining how slippery your voice would
become
Tasting each letter
While my pinky nibbled yours
The way my parents both savored bitterness
My dad in his scotch
My mom in the word
Alcoholic.
You were the embodiment
Of my third grade
fantasy
The one that ripped the white veil
Off my head
And made me want to
Sew red flags on to my sleeves
Dusted in the incantation
Of divorce.
I began to crave you
Like the cigarette
I had to sneak
During Sunday service
Like the sadness
That sucks at my tonsils.
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