“Not everything is a poem, Blythe,” my mother scoffs.
I laugh because I am certain everything is a poem
if you catch it in just the right light,
like a crystal.
But sometimes writing feels like I am turning the ugly history
of my body into stone.
I freeze violent memories into cement statues in these poems
so they can no longer hurt me, they can only stare at me,
which isn’t as bad, I guess.
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