When I was eighteen,
My best friend called me a bitch
On the Long Island Rail Road,
And I sat there thinking about that moment
For the rest of our trip to the museum.
Not even the dinosaurs
Could pick me back up again.
“SHE’S being a bitch.”
I sat with a huge anchor in my throat
That weighed my head down,
Down, down, down,
Where salt water gathered around my large arms
And drowned me.