I think that is supposed to be good, that I get less from him but I feel worthless.

Yaicha and Darren told me that I wasthe mailman’s child,and I got so angry,stalking away,hot steam in my ribs.Yaicha and Darrentold me that I was the mailman’s childand now I am thinkinghow wonderful it would...

Yaicha is named after a songby some group from the last century called thePousette-Dart Band.Something about a girl, a candle in the falling rain shining amidst the pain.I kind of surprise myselfwhen I can picture...

Or maybe I am justoutside enough,being the footstool observing from the corner,that I have a view of reality.

Not scared.But excited in thatjiggering-on-too-much-hot-saucekind of waythat it’s time tostep outof my old framework,raw and amorphous,to become something I’ve never thought of before.

I never realizedtill nowhow hard the brain has to workto make the body do what it asks.Or maybe how hard the body has to workto ignorethe brain.

Then why don’t I tell on him?If they don’t, why don’t I?Because.Because I am safe this way,silent unnoticed.

I got an A on the third quiz in American history, an A, dammit. Last time I got a Bup from a Cand my father said,”if you can get a Cyou can get a B,if...

You’ve always been skinny,always will.” I can feeleachreclusivebonepoke through,the bones of Embarrassment,Anger,Relief.I push some back in,but leaveAngersticking out.

Why am I not good enough?At least he loves Darren and Yaichain some wayeven if it’s horrible, he shows them attentionand I am furnitureI get nothing nothingnothingno thing