I never understood why when my sister scraped her knees in the school parking lot she waited until she was home to start crying. Why she burst into tears not when her skin split but when mom asked her what caused it. I never understood until I scraped my heart clean against a boy like concrete and could not cry until I saw the woman who raised me waiting on the front porch, peeling paint chips off the rocking chair, praying her only son is still holy. I try to tell her who I am and instead I break down sobbing, all bloodshot eyes and memories bruising, my sinner’s mouth full of sand. I’m sorry that everytime my mother asks me who I am, I have to say your name and you’re sorry you neglected to take my words away before I could do this, before I could tell the story how it happened. When mom asks how this happened I respond: “You taught me to believe in God.”
god I believe is a given thing
neglected,
rocking,
sinner’s
bruising.
I saw
who I am and
bloodshot
the concrete
peeling off
the
parking lot
words me
away
everytime
you
scraped my
mouth
sorry
I was sobbing
over the story
why
my sister
never
asks
me
who I am and
god
my mother
waiting
to hear your name
Matthew Toth (he/they) is a writer from Pasadena, California. He studies English and Religion at Kenyon College in Ohio, where he is an editor in chief of Sunset Press. Matthew was a Kenyon Review associate for two years and also has poems in Vagabond City Lit and Exposed Bone. Find him on Instagram @matthewtoth_