Her name is Penelope and I met her 8 years ago. 
She has lightning between her eyes and a beige 
stain around her collar. 

She stalks me as she watches me move through life,
judging the way I walk across the floor. Trying to
anticipate my steps. 

If I’d known I’d be walking on eggshells, I would
have left her in Colora, where the skies were blue
and the cloaks were white.

And a toothless boy whose daddy was dead told 
me he’d kill her if I ever left him, who trotted me 
through town as proof he was wanted,

who lied to his mother while laying on top of me.

Penelope rolled her eyes and sharpened her claws
and when she took a swipe at him I smiled. 

I knew I couldn’t turn off the road into a live oak 
when I remembered she was back home under the bed. 

so I woke up each morning and fed her and kept calling 
my mom, but I’m covered in scars I wouldn’t have if I’d 
left her in that box on the side of route one when I was
a girl and red Chevy trucks didn’t cause me to flinch. 

Content Warning

The poet decided this submission may have content that's not for everyone. If you'd like to see it anyway, please click the eyeball icon.