I don’t know how.

I even stopped wishing on 11:11 because I convinced myself

that it was bad luck

instead of good.

I feel the same way about eyelashes,

and shooting stars,

and the random seeds I found in my kitchen,

and planted;

you don’t always get what you wish for.

Sometimes you get bell peppers,

when you thought you had

may we know them,

may we be them,

may we raise them.”

emblazoned in gold letters on the front of a notebook my mother gives me,

tearfully,

for my nineteenth birthday.

i am fifteen,

and she is screaming that she does not understand

why i want to die,

so i tell her i don’t. 

tell her i am strong,

strong woman.

i tell her i love her,

i write this poem in the notebook,

destroy the home she built in me;

warm blankets, bedtime stories,

and all.

i tear my childhood limb for limb

as she tells me that i wasn’t raised like this -

i drown out the noise of my father beating my brother in the next room

with the silence of a mother starving herself for kicks,

picking her moments like daisies wilting in my bedroom

the summer i never opened the blinds,

the summer my best friend down the block

gave me a going away gift,

a stark reminder that innocence is purely objective,

childhood a privilege,

forced adulthood a virtue,

not a curse.

she tells me i was raised better than this,

stronger than this,

strong woman.

i want to ask her

hiding behind my father’s chair,

tears like party streamers down my cheeks,

my mother passing me gifts that i can’t bear to open

in front of everyone.

it’s my birthday.

my mother sighs.

how did we get here?

growing up sits like 

seven bricks 

on my chest,

getting heavier with each passing year. nineteen,

not my birthday,

not even close, actually.

i am dreading it already,

an air strike

i have not yet prepared for,

not built a strong enough shelter against.

i reach up and press on the bricks

he rolls over and tells me,

“Olivia.

I think I am over this.”

I hold my breath and stare at the infinite nothing of the ceiling -

he laughs.

He is sleep talking,

but has been sleeping so far out of my reach

that convincing myself that this was not intentional

proves more difficult

than I am comfortable with.

I don’t respond.

I stay silently awake,

reaching fingertips out occasionally to meet

cold air.

We are sleeping under separate blankets.

Same bed.

Separate hearts,