The sidewalk outside is wet. So is

my swing hanging from the orange tree branches,

and my pink boots by the door that hurt. 

I like to draw the same picture

over and over, a different bedroom

from mine scratched out

in blue pen. At night I turn into branches

and leaves and things don’t hurt

anymore. I saw a picture

on TV once of a man

growing bark out

of his skin. Armor. I wake up

with my hands curled into claws. 

There are marks on the insides 

of my wrists, scratched out

and tucked away for a picture. It’s not 

that I didn’t want this, I just

thought the air would feel different

after.