My child-sized fist covered with cuts
from punching out the glass to the garage door,
a punch I didn’t remember throwing,
and how the circle of bandaids around my wrist
wouldn’t stay on.
Holding my mother’s hand
after I’d ripped out the IVs
and feeling the hospital socks
grip the floor tiles while we walked —
and now I remember why I hate orange popsicles.
The look on that girl’s face
just before she burst into tears
and turned my love story into her tragic drama,
then vowing to myself
I’d never tell her any of my milestones again.
Seeing her private message to him —
“I can’t wait to have you inside me again” —
just hours after he told me it was only me,
and then the world went blurry and my professor
had to repeat the question I hadn’t heard.
The taste of cigarettes that lingered
after I pulled away from the stranger
who had kissed me — or who I’d kissed.
I don’t remember which.
Finding the empty bottles in the drawer
while I was looking for scissors
to make him something for his birthday.
And now, looking down at my adult hands,
trying to discern how it is
that the only punch they’ve ever thrown
was at a garage door when I was two.