Mother scatters across her barren mattress,
face stolen,
arms and legs spread like an open prayer.
Sunnyside, she says
pushes dark away from the streetlight
that runs through the windows.

Walls I was born in
stagger and vibrate with the pitch dark.
I don’t want to trip, fall, bleed.
Ugly.

The fridge cries, my sister says.
The floor opens beside, bowling moisture,
careful,
but she slips, she falls, she opens.
We eat the ice cream when she scabs
then leave the rest.

We try to grasp ourselves through the darkness,
slide a little still,
the slight press of her fingers
so soft against mine,
make me promises
that whisper, pause, then whisper again
through the blackness,
through the dark.

Father comes back with the daylight,
cheeks flushed from the cold,
smelling of a secret love and happiness.
Doesn’t look at me when he
lifts me by the elbows.

You’ll never be beautiful, he once said,
but I’ll love you all the same.