One day I’ll be happy enough
to not cry on your birthday.
I won’t have to beat my fists against
the slope of my skull
or purple my thighs over the unfair ordeal
of having a brain like mine. I wish
I could be an easy daughter, that I could
find you a better one on the highest shelf
of a seaside gift shop and swaddle her
in wrapping paper to place in your hands,
who won’t hate the body you gave her
the kind of someone you deserve
but never got.