Apocalypse

Whatever I touch is
its own rabbit hole.
My daughter imagines
cigarettes, wine bottles,
the image of a cum-soaked
body turning inwards.
All year, my notebook
dissects the narrative
on her flesh–how many
skin cells in her bed
sheets, how violent
she looked next to
her teacher that night–
condom in one hand,
a bottle of Merlot
between them. At all
hours, I have imagined
vanishing him. My fingers
are always threatening
petition letters, emails
to the police. There is
something grotesque about
about laying in a married
man’s lap. My daughter wants
me to admit there are joys
in drowning. I was her age
once. I knew what it was
to touch impossible darkness.
Everything in my closet
evokes the memory of my
first boyfriend at prom,
his sweat scent. At
seventeen, your sex life
is something out of a
manic episode–the hookups,
the dick pics, the night that
becomes a container of coke
lines, marijuana plants,
sex that degrades
everything. It is strange
how we have not turned
each other into walking
horror shows, complete
with bite marks and
carpet burns and
the kind of language
that smells like regret.
Last night alone was enough
to disgust me. I do not
ever want to think about
the bodies my daughter is
crawling into. I am too
obsesed with the memory
of my own body being burned
alive. Over and over, the
world threatens to unravel
my family with its beer-drenched
fist. I have tried to ignore
the death threats, the knife
blades, the mailman’s fuck you.
A woman does not know adulthood
until she is cursed at. If my
daughter is punishment for
my gutter lifestyle, then
mom, please take her back
to the foster home you
abandoned me in. I finally
understand what you were
talking about when you said
no one should ever raise a child.