when i was seven, i crashed

through my grandmother’s house

and my mother called me a

hurricane. that is probably the

most accurate word that

could ever describe me.

i am a hurricane. i am a

quasi-insomniac. i don’t

just wear my heart on my sleeve,

but also on my collar, in my

pocket, and on my shoelaces.

i refuse to bite my tongue.

i hate the taste of blood in my

mouth. i have been pushed

down, but my thirst cannot be

quenched. i am furious and loyal,

a force to be reckoned with.

i am sharp but fragile, like the

glass windows in our house.

(I Am My Mother’s Child.)