I started writing poetry
at eight years old
when a bowl of cereal for every hour you were late
just didn't cut it anymore.
I started writing poetry and didn't stop,
still reciting lines in my head
as I leaned over the toilet bowl,
my body rejecting all my previous efforts
to fill your empty space on the couch.

Calls from you on my birthdays
were followed by two Cokes,
a piece of cake, crackers with cheese
and cranberry sauce, grapes, chips,
stashed Halloween chocolate,
and a poem.

You bought me lunch
when you were in town for my
high school graduation
and the waiter avoided eye contact
every time he refilled my glass.
When we'd finished eating and yelling,
you gave me money to get my
nails done for the party.
I spent it at three different restaurants
that night, occupying my mouth
so it didn't even have time to scream.
I fell asleep on an open notebook
and shook hands with my principal the next day,
my nails bitten to the quick.

In the time that it's taken me to write this poem,
I have eaten six Starbursts, a bag of Skittles
(all but the orange ones), and I have chewed on
two pieces of Dubble Bubble.
I purposely left my wallet in my apartment
when I took a break to go for a smoke
so I wouldn't buy a bag of Doritos
at the 7-11 around the corner.
It doesn't take a shrink to figure out
that you make me feel empty,
so I eat to fill the space.

The first time the magazine published my work,
you asked to see more of my writing, so
I sent you a stack of titled letters
and I never got a response.