I'm eleven years old and my body is blossoming. Carnations sprout white from the scrapes in my knees and I cough up columbines into the sink. I'm eleven years old and I think I'm blessed. My parents watch me grow but God, so do the men at the gas station. You need to cover up, your uncle will be here soon. Wear a push-up bra, and lip gloss, but don't even think about eyeshadow because you’re not a whore. I sob peony petals into my pillow at night. White bedsheets, red spots, and inherited shame: I'm eleven years old and my body betrayed me. Apple of Eden, Apple of an eye, dark red roses burst from my stomach and the thorns rip holes in my body. Ignore it, take ibuprofen. You're just being dramatic, you're just acting like a girl. I'm eleven years old and for every missed conception I bleed out on the floor. I miss the daisies that grew behind my childhood home.