I was obedient, a dim beam
from a frayed wire, never

                alight. I was the finest void,
                listening to my mother sing
                about Diane sitting in Jack’s lap.

She talked to herself,
sobbing when she couldn’t answer

                her own questions. I tried to be
                a good unwanting, a quiet thing
                a collapsed lung. At night,

I bit my nails down to the quick
staining my sheets with dotted blood.

                I uncover my voice, my tongue
                filling my toothed gap. I speak
                to my reflection & ask

her to be the brightest light.

Kiyanna Hill (she/her) is a Black writer. Her work can be found in Porter House Review, Honey Literary, Autofocus, Peach Mag, and elsewhere. Her debut poetry chapbook, A Damned House and Us In It, is forthcoming from Variant Lit.