writing

i am child of no one 
raised by peanut butter sandwiches made in the dark 
dare not for jelly 
goodnight was hope for the bed not the stairs 
not the front porch 
not the floor 
sometimes now i remember what it felt like to die 
something sweet in the black edges that crept in 
over my vision before i knew what it was to bleed anywhere 
else but from my own fingernails in skin

Olivia Max Grace