This is where we learn how to die:
as children, we played hangman
on chalkboards, screeched with joy when
someone lost. Said they lacked
something. So, again & again, in childish
vengeance, we stripped our cartoon
men of everything. I always lost & mourned
defeat, nothing else. I never learned
death. I took pens & played the game by
myself during recess, drew on my
wrists. In this construct, there are only winners.
Losers are worth quarters carelessly
spent on cafeteria snacks: too salty-chips,
fruit out of a can. No one has to suffer
for year-old maraschino cherries. We misspell
our names all the time, snap the necks of
weeds at recess. There are no consequences.
I sat alone every lunch, hid in bathrooms &
collected thin paper towels. In between bites,
I scrubbed, watched suds cascade onto the dirty
floor. I ran out into sunlight; the partially formed
body drowning in light. That little man
never went away until my mother bathed
me that night in lavender body wash
she’d bought on sale. She’d screamed
when she saw what I’d done, not for blurred
lines, an outline of tragedy. My punishment
was no dessert, skin rubbed red & raw.
We played hangman in class the next day—
I still lost.