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Control, Control

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I knew what control meant,
stepping on a scale twice, three
times a day, because one day,
it's going to tell me I have value.
Eating, just to eat.
Taking anything
with meaning under a microscope
before running wild to run away
from home.

I didn't know how to speak
--"failure to thrive" is what
teachers probably called it,
and so everyone
was turning mushy in humid
water on the stove top called home.

But at least I knew how to wash away
the insanity
after having to peel sticky labels
off of bananas from Rouses.

I knew what I was doing,
but it was helping
me to forget everything that reached
the ceiling.

I knew what control meant
until my psychiatrist gave me
ninety seconds to define it
and I could only say [....]

I know what control means.

But at least my hands and weight
are clean.