My hands smell like blood.

Leave it alone.

I wanted a yes/no answer, but settled for labeless bottles of impulse and restless sleep. My voice and sensibility left in a fruit bowl full of keys by the front door. A girl asked me where I lay my head at night, unaware she had proven a point about the difference between something and nothing; between temperate air and the moon rising; what I've done and who I'm becoming.

Come Sunday I'm tethered back home to begin something of a repair. My body, thirsting and bruised, shrinks and stands to be bonier. I pluck and tap my ribs like the tuneless piano I tickled then had sex on. I prayed the wind would gather my bones when I'm scattered about the streets.

My father announced at dinner that he had given up on me each night around the 4am hour.

I skipped a page in an effort to be a better friend/daughter/mother. I must have failed feigned happiness, lost my voice. My mother's price is beyond her means, and I wonder if material is in my blood. Her husband drinks poison, but never enough.

That's not me. I stitched my grandmother's aprons. Her thumbs carried too much water to fit in the thimbles.

Note to self: I thought you wanted to starve.