I was raised by spells and yelling

By stumpy hands that tried so hard to be smooth while cradling

I was raised by animals dressed in little dresses I tricked them into wearing

By beaten nanny dogs sleeping at my feet

I was raised by silver molars

By calcareous water

By sopaipillas drizzled in honey

By cholla wood sword fights while silverleaf nightshades bit the backs of my ankles

I was not raised by Kant or Foucault

I was raised by self identified cunts who could hold a whole room between two fingers

I was raised by Maypoles

And Tabitha, and Leslie, and Isabel

And layers of bird shit under my tiny toes

I was raised by coiled phone cords and secret diaries

And a blue dad not shaken awake

And Bratz dolls and mashing their plastic bodies together

I was raised by touching

And being touched

By wishing to be touched more in a different way

By fingers in places they shouldn’t be

The sky is much bigger out there,

And when you scream your voice doesn’t come back to ring in your ears.

It’s the kind of vacuum where you can’t tell if things feel infinite or not.

We’re all cartoon characters kicking up dirt and running in place.

The stars are brighter out there and so beautiful it becomes boring.

So many shooting stars you stop wishing.

And there’s this pain, this kind of cinematic pain that gets addicting

Like pressing your tongue into rotting teeth.

Somehow I made it out. still can’t work out how, but after all I was raised by distance and leaving

And it’s never felt fair

Leaving left me needing my fix

And that longing, is that because I’m a dyke or an addict?

I was raised by my mother’s bed

By soiled carpet

By catnip rotting sweet

I was raised by little girls

By make believe

I was raised by a small dark room

By a goose necked lamp

And I’m still there sometimes

I open the door. The bulb still humming