I am good at getting used to the uncomfortable. 

When I was three, it was strangers and bad smell: 

it was the texture of jeans and the bars of my cot like a cell 

it was midday naps that interrupted our lives and long, winding, hot car drives. 

When I was nine,  it was church. 

Being put into mass and relearning religion 

and I learned that sometimes, no one version of faith has the wrong vision 

When I was 11, it was classes.  

Stuffy old building filled with old books that were new to you. 

Gym with other kids who weren’t just the people my parents knew. 

When I was 14, I learned I’m not immune to the invisible nitpicking of being something other than straight, white, catholic, and amused at the faulty jokes of others who never truly knew. 

When I was 15, I was learning how to live with the memory of violence.   

Knowing that the last moments of someone I knew had been full of terror, pure panic. Blood splattered like rain. 

                                     Screams echo through hallways.  

                                     And the sinking, unendurable pain.  

                                     That it could have been me.  

                                     Relearning how to feel safe in my own space. 

                                     In my own skin.   

                                     How to breathe without fear. 

                                     How to listen for something besides a threat.  

                                                                               Besides the promise of my own death.