The empty carseat drew all my attention. I never saw the pedestrian. When the police charged me with manslaughter, I thought, yes, that’s exactly it.
I stole Daddy’s knife to whittle him a pipe. He thought Momma lost it so he beat her good. I gave her the pipe instead.
When the doctor says infertile, I remember that baby I aborted years before. Though he says it’s nobody’s fault, I know barrenness is my penance.
you never seemed to like change
i did my best to stay the same
neither of us would budge
we were two statues in love
Bright crimson water filled the tub. The day before she said, You were the best sister. I hadn’t noticed she was speaking in past tense.
I swore I’d never hit anyone, but when that jerk at school insulted my dead mom, I couldn’t help it. I’d never felt more powerful.
At the bus stop, three older boys called my friend a slut and grabbed her budding breasts. I said nothing. Her skirt was too short.
On Momma’s birthday I foraged berries for breakfast and even caught a frog to fry. I don’t know why she cried as she ate them.
The dusty basement air sets off my asthma. I deserve this, I think as my lungs scream. Good Christian girls kiss boys, not other girls.
When he plunges the knife into her chest, the pain overwhelms her, but she’s grateful for it. She won’t have to live like this anymore.