Growing Pains

I.

Shards of glass course through my legs in the middle of the night causing me to cry for my mother because I’m certain I am dying       from the inside out.

She assures me—

Oh darling, we call these growing pains, they come and they go…

Who knew that growing could be so sudden? These leg muscles
involuntarily contracting cause me to lose all control.

The growing doesn’t stop and neither does the pain that comes with it. My breasts come in at twelve,            and so, I plan out my obituary, certain I won’t make it to see the ripe age of eighteen. The librarian asks me why I need books about death and dying at such a young age.

Do you have cancer?

No. I. Just. Don't. Have. Long.

But my mother says feelings aren’t facts and I wonder if she’s right. If it feels warm outside, who decides the difference between balmy and pleasant? When sweat beads across my skin and I burn it must be true. I should probably choose my outfit for a proper burial.

Overalls/denim

Velour Scrunchie/roseate

Socks/mismatched

No bra/I’ll be dead.

But just in case, I make note of the demi cup with the eyelet lace.

II.

Because the Devil is in the details.

III.

I am born with certainty in my cartilage, strong and flexible. An entire musculoskeletal system holds me together.

If the pelvis is a basin that holds and protects my sexual organs—to keep them as one, supporting their freedom of movement—then surely my backbone is depleted of the very calcium it needs to stand tall.    But for the sake of this conversation, everything is fine. My hips round at age fourteen,     and so, I fill in as many blanks as I can because my obituary is nothing short of a Mad Lib. Ambivalent for the first time in my life—will I make it to age sixteen? My teacher asks me why I write papers about love and hate at such a young age.

Did someone break your heart?

No. I. Just. Don’t. Have. The. Bones. To. Protect. It.

Of that I feel certain. But my teacher says that feelings aren’t facts and I wonder if he’s right. If my deathbed overalls are too tight, who decides the difference between being fat and holding water weight? Does it become a naked truth once the funeral director asks—

Does she have something that has a little more give to it?

Sundress/for access and the boys

Banana clip/kelly-green

Sandals/the kind that go between the toes

No bra/I’ll be dead.

But just in case, I make note of the one with the hook in the front.

IV.

Because the Devil might be watching me.

V.

Loneliness replaces the minerals in the cavities of my bones because this is what happens when girls turn into women.

I’m not certain of how I will die. But my mother never fails to remind me of how to dress.

Don’t you think he’ll get the wrong idea if you’re wearing that?

No. I. Just. Don’t. Have. Anything. Without. Pockets.

And it’s fine, really. The only thing I hope to hold is His hand in mine and not the worry that it means anything more.

Not steady/but maybe?

Not official/I can (want to) wait.

Not together/but not apart either.

My hands ache at sixteen,       and so my obituary sits—slashed through with a red pen, because I’m going to live forever I can feel it—under a pile of half-written essays on metaphor. Green and budding, freshly watered and attended to, He makes me feel alive.

I want to yell at my mother, But it has pockets can’t you see how much this matters? The meaning of this has changed. There is so much for me to carry these days and I’m running out of room to tuck it all away without giving it all away. Everyone reminds me to lift with my legs and not with my back because hinging from the waist will surely cause my heart to tumble right out of my mouth,                         and losing one’s heart at sixteen is such a young age.

Must you carry it all?

Yes/seeking validation brings out the blue in my eyes

And/I am unsure of myself and it makes him smile

So/a jury of peers will decide if I’m a summer or an autumn

No bra/I’ll be dead.

But just in case, I make note of the one that goes over my head.

VI.

Because the Devil is in my hollowed bones.

 VII.

He’s been calling me all day. His straw-colored hair and eyes, usually ice blue, are now blurry with darkness. The calls come from the secrecy of a closet, but it’s His voice, unmistakable and intentional.

C’mon, why won’t you let me see?

No. I. Just. Don’t. Have. The. Guts. To. Show. You. All. Of. Me.

He doesn't announce himself, He simply arrives much like the shortening of my leg muscles. The Devil’s voice is rich. His cadence falls in line with the pumping of my unprotected heart.

Thump/trust me

Thump/it’ll be so good

Thump/you can’t get better than me

My breath       catches.

I hold it all in, afraid the wrong answer will drain me of what little I have left or what little I still hope to get. Some deities might spread an anomaly of cells throughout bodies with the chance to stave it off. But when this boy spreads words across town—

(tease, prude, plays-hard-to-get)

—a blast radius untouchable by radiation poisons the social well.

My eyes do nothing but cry at age seventeen,            and so I fish out the crumpled obituary and flatten the edges under the weight of my textbooks. I hurry up and wait for my death notice to lengthen out because it’s all I know to do and this will be my death—waiting to be saved.

Head over heart, feet, and heels I draw His name in the margins of the paper next to my place of birth and who I’ll be survived by. Although I’ve heard parents don’t quite live the same when their child is gone and it’s hard for me to picture because all of my friends seem to be thriving without me,     and so it’s possible my mother and father will still cruise the Amalfi Coast—and sing karaoke, and make friends with Barbara and Kevin (they lost their daughter too, but to something else)—and they’ll miss me, but not nearly as much as I miss Him calling me mine.

Before I pass through my final edits a call comes in at night for no one to hear but me. Closer than ever before. It’s as if his hot breath aerates through the receiver and there’s no question this time.

Baby girl, let me.

Ear piercing trills/sharp and lingering

A cherry/shiny and red

Echo/Oh. Ohh. Ohhh, he moans

No bra/I’ll be dead.

But just in case, I make note of the one tucked into his back pocket.

VIII.

Because the Devil knows exactly what to say.

IX.

The curtains over my bay window stay open. I’m done hiding. There’s something to be said about wanting to be seen. But my mother has so many questions. She demands answers. She insists I clean myself up. Get dressed. Chin up. Wash your face. Dry your eyes.

Do you think you can stay in bed all day, young lady?

No. I. Just. Don’t. Know. How. To. Wake. Up.

She doesn’t understand—or maybe she does—why my voice wavers at seventeen,     and so in my best good girl voice (because I’m still a girl) I tell her how I wave at everyone even when I don’t want to. How I’m expected to be likable/agreeable/pleasurable because it’s good for my legacy to have a headstone that says—

Such a nice (and good) girl lies here.

She doesn’t know—or maybe she does—that He is my undoing. The catalyst that pushes all of the other dominoes over. How He knows the curve of my breasts and the dimple on my hip bones. I don’t dare tell her how the scar from my appendectomy,         hurt far less than what He’s made me carry and how there’s no anesthesia for the war I feel when He admires another nice girl. I want to count down from ten so I can fall asleep and wake up to graham crackers and ice-cold apple juice with a bendy straw. I promise(d) to be good.

My mother calls me her little bouquet. Is this what happens to flowers when they wilt? She assures me—

Darling, you’re beautiful to look at…

Dried flowers crumble Mother can’t you see? They get pressed
between pages and lose all of their color.

She doesn’t know—or maybe she does—that I am no longer good. Not rooted in the soil she planted me in. Unalive,          and so I finalize my obituary. Here lies a girl who started dying all too soon next to her stacks of books, dog-eared pages and highlighted words. Unprepared. Not ready. The chapters were too advanced. The pains were meant to help her grow. But, there were words and techniques misunderstood. Her wave was interpreted as an invite. But, she left pages cross-referenced for potential cause of death. The doctor asks me why I tell stories about pain and suffering at such a young age?

Did someone hurt you?

No. I. Just. Don’t. Know. If. You’ll. Believe. Me.

But my doctor says that feelings aren’t facts and I wonder if he’s right. If the marks on my skin are not enough proof, who decides.

No/I said

Yes/he said

Not ready/Yes, you are…no I’m not

No bra/I think I’m dying.

There are more questions about the history of my pelvis. What I was wearing. Was I under the influence of drugs, friends, or social media? I should probably change my outfit for the proper burial I’ll be given. The doctor asks my mother—

Do you have another set of clothes for her to change into?

Here/a gown that opens in the back

Wear/grippy socks

This/identification bracelet, female age eighteen

A bra/I am dead.

But just in case, I make note of the green sweater I woke up in.

X.

Because the Devil always wants his hoodie back.