The Ache with My Name On It

At twelve I thought silence
was proof of goodness,
so I swallowed whole afternoons
until my stomach grew teeth.

My father came home drunk again.

The refrigerator held the song he couldn’t.

I pressed my ear against it,

pretending the machine was a choir.

Some nights I still dream

my body is a house without doors,

neighbors sliding their fingers

under the frame to test my locks.

Every ache I carry now

has my name on it,

like a child who carves initials

into wet bark

and pretends the wound

will heal into love.

Sabrina Herrmann is a 28-year-old marketing professional living in New York City who writes poetry between subway stops. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, The William & Mary Review, Peregrine Journal, The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, Cathexis Northwest Press, and others. She loves good music, strong coffee, and the small moments that stay with her.