My skin is the sky. My face is a sunset And my arms are covered in purple…blue clouds. Today is a rainy day. How can I believe my body is a temple when it hurts to move? Abuse turns my eyes into body bags tears open my rib cage and fills my stomach with love sonnets I will burn one day. Family is a complicated web of explosives when hurt is passed down through the generations. I only know how to love, when my life is a burning building without fire escapes. But they say, “lands built by the hands of volcanoes are the most fertile” Well baby, my volcanoes are still spewing, soon I will be so fertile I will shit creativity out of my decidedly sober, rape surviving, proudly female ass, despite the “at risk youth, you will not go anywhere, you cannot do this” stamp that they beat into my skin. So come on build me. Help dispute statistics that an adult child of alcoholism is thrust into codependency their entire life. My bruises may be half-moons, but they shine over the pyramids. I may have smoked the stars but that does not make my future doomed. I have been taught how to fall. But I learned how to get up on my own. I learned not to cry over spilt beer.