Morgan Fu-Mueller
a girlhood is a neverending string of loss and loss and loss. you broke a vase in my home and i didn’t even realize because you told me it was yours.
gather up the broken pieces of pottery. i want them back. when i put them up in the cabinet, they will be limned in blood and not gold. they won’t hold wine again, but if you touch them, i want them to cut you.
my hairdresser told me i had to forgive you and i nearly walked out. my anger is one thing that you couldn’t take from me.
a girlhood is a neverending string of wrong choices i didn’t know i made. a girlhood is a mire that sinks me, starving for my hopes.
who are you talking about, when you say you miss me?
i didn’t know what i was losing until it was already long gone. i wish i had the privilege of seeing your back as you walked away. i walked away but it was already too late, my own blood limning the cracks of the vase like a condemnation.
a girlhood is to make a friend of your own blood. to pull shards from your hands before they start hurting, or after, or during. what matters is that you pull them. you will know it’s over when you remember to bleed. the blood will be the only thing you know for sure.
a girlhood is a corpse you carry. i drag its dead weight forward. i hold its hand, too small, too cold, in mine as i walk. it stains me and i want it to. the stains are mine to keep.
a girlhood is a room you live in that doesn’t belong to you. a girlhood is the blood on your hands, on my hands, all over the china and trailing over the dining room table. a girlhood is everything i lost that i still can’t let go of, clutching onto those deafening vacancies.
a girlhood is all the sharp edges of a broken vase’s cadaver, added together and sitting in your cabinet. grab a pair of cups. let’s have some tea.
CLAMOR 