Cup half empty since age two,
drinking the juice out of a bendy straw.
I cried every time I had to light the stove.
“I want to live inside of the microwave,”
I announce.

It’s safe to say, it’s hard to make friends
from the inside of a deep freeze
or a computer screen. I’d leave my home
half frosted, half digital and too delicate
for anything on a playground.

Under observation, the results were concerning,
scientists studying my belly button scar,
wondering what had been taken out
or put in, and how much RAM I have.
Why does the girl have so many glitches—
why does she talk so much—
how does she get an A in every class,
but has never once hit a ball?

I go home every night and my mother
wraps me in bubble wrap,
hangs all ten pairs of scissors on hooks
six feet high, so I can’t reach them
even if I jump.
And believe me, I jump.

I carry the microwave out of the kitchen and
stand on it with unsturdy feet to reach the clippers.
I free myself from the bubble wrap,
snipping away with my little hands.

The blade slips and opens my belly button.
I’m back in the hospital, crying and
reds of all sorts. People talking over me
when I try to explain,
I can’t keep living sewn-shut
even if they want me to.
I’ll find another pair of scissors.

Everyone claps like I’ve said my first words.
Congratulations, it’s an anomaly.