Burnt Tongue

When I was eight, I learned to lie

I was taught by my family, who used me

as cannon fodder in wars waged against themselves

They scooped me up and told me I was fine,

So I repeated the falsities back to them,

to others, to myself as I pressed crayons

against burning light bulbs and let the melted wax

drip onto my fingertips so that at least part of me had armor

My mind was burning kerosene,

Laughing with other little girls, as though I meant it

As though I didn’t know I was fatter and not as pretty

And that I didn’t know they knew this, too

The flames burned through dry grass, giving my bare feet

a path to tread as I made my way to the slide in my backyard

where all my free time languished

Alone, and hanging head first from the top, my curls would touch

the letters I carved into faded green plastic

“Just shoot me,” and I lied to myself about why

My mother taught me to say I couldn’t go to birthday parties

We were always too busy,

When busy was that she was sleeping while I played games

with opponents who stared back at me with glass eyes

The invitations stopped, and so did my force fed lies

I had a higher reading level than anyone my age,

I tucked my words between my ribcage for safe keeping

I picked up a pencil, pressed the soft tip

against sharp grooves on my bedroom wall

I scratched out various letters

until I remembered how to spell “island”

because that’s what I was

And I couldn’t forget