There is an endless list of things and people I wish I could be,
but I am sure I will never own enough magic to be any of them: 
the dandelions growing in the space between my eyes. The free birds
singing silence into the cold body of God. 	The sweet, sweet boy 
my father wishes his seeds had grown into. 	On what is supposed 
to be the night of my tenth birthday, 		my parents 
spent the entirety of their day chasing lost dreams and I can’t say I blame
them for it. The man I am not supposed to name is a monster, 
but I don’t think he means to be. I don’t think anyone is strong enough 
to body so much sadness without looking for a warm place to put it all down. 
I am stupid in all the ways I am too embarrassed to say, but again,
I do not blame myself for it. I look in the mirror and do not recognize
whatever it is that is staring back at me. I am so sorry that I wish to be called 
beautiful. Is this regret, Da? All of the monsters making a home out of this body
were never supposed to be mine. At home, all the hibiscuses are yellow with grief 
and the knot in my chest tightens deeper and deeper and deeper. 
Is it regret that makes my voice break the way it breaks? 
In the background, Hozier is finding his way to church 
and I am ridden in bed, experimenting with new ways to wear this body. 
I am mistaking my hand for a knife, mistaking my tongue for a sword 
threatening to slice my insides open. My pocket is still full of desire, 
and I have no idea what to do with it. The only thing I want for this body 
is for it to be a vessel for answered prayers: for it to grow 
into all the beautiful things it is destined for. The one single thing
I want to do with this lonesome body is to be with it
and love it long enough to call it home.