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, 

someone better

who won’t hate the body you gave her

the kind of someone you deserve 

but never got.

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