when i was small,

i learned how to swallow gravel,

just so.

they filled my hands with it,

pressed them shaking to my lips,

and i took it in each time with muffled

apologies

and "i love you's."

they taught me not to lie,

or to show my sensitivity--

they taught me not to lie

or tell the truth.

in middle school i began swallowing rocks

hot like sun or cool and smooth and wet like winter.

i learned to turn my head aside and

smile

before gulping and excusing pains quickly

with half-false hugs

as that something hot or cold slipped down my esophagus

and into my belly.

high school, my stomach collected stones

weighty and shifting and sinking inside,

and i forgot how to swim,

and i dreamed about drowning every night.

i am nineteen and my body's full of boulders!

i'm so sorry,
i'm so sorry you break my heart each day,
i swear to god
i'll sweep up the pieces and hide them under rugs--

i'll swallow the moon for you.