Throwaway “Poem” No. I: $100

My grandmother didn't love me. When I was 4, My grandmother tried to kill me. Over $100.


She was upset with my mother.

Every week, my mother would send $100. $100 that went to drunken nights with strangers. $100 that went to expensive clothes. (and even more expensive shoes.) $100 that went to everything (and everyone) except her daughter.

She didn't know of course. (grandma was a good liar!) My mother sent money to everyone except her daughter.

My mother missed one week. (In my grandmother's words, she forgot she had me. She forgot I existed.)

My grandmother tried to kill me.

She called my mother, crying. (crocodile tears) She called my mother a whore. An ungrateful






She said my mother owed her. She told her I was starving—I wasn't. She told her I had bruises on my body from constant beatings—I didn't. She told my mother she tried to kill me.

With our gas stove. My monster of a grandmother tried to kill me. (yet I still cried when she died. to date this is my biggest regret.)

I was asleep, And she turned the gas knobs on. She laid down next to me. She closed her eyes. She hugged me. Apparently, she was crying, (crocodile tears) But that makes no difference.

My grandmother tried to kill me.

My mother cried. She asked to speak to me. I don't remember if we did.

Actually, I do. I remember. We spoke. My mother was sobbing. She asked if I was OK. I was.

My grandmother snatched the phone away. She beat me afterwards. She said my mother would forget about me. (she didn't.)

A few days later (perhaps a few hours later, I don't remember,) My mother sent $100.


Mom, I'm sorry.

I can't look at animal crackers and sprite without thinking that that's all you ate sometimes; for weeks on end.

So you could send strangers $100.

Sometimes I wish I'd never been born.