I’m the crimson-lettered girl in the family Bible,
first fruit bruised on the branch,
Mom’s mascara still drying on my collarbone,
Dad’s silence pressed like a vinyl warped in the attic.
I caught every grenade they tossed at the dinner table,
pinned them to my braids like prom corsages,
bled champagne on the debutante dress
they swore would fit my kid sister someday.
So I carve their secrets into stadium lights—
every slur, every slammed door—
turn the shame into a sold-out chant:
I was the experiment, now I’m the evidence.