My alphabet is an axe, swinging. A round of birdshot, shattering against the skeet. A binder, bought in secret and tucked under a mattress. A copperhead, camouflaged by the brush, staring up at the tread of a boot. My alphabet has dirt-caked jeans and muddy shoes. It's looking for an excuse to start a fight. It's a final warning in a student file. A fish hook to the lip. My alphabet gets sent home for calling out in religion class. Gets grounded by mom. It's hair cut short enough to be a dress code violation. It's the ivy that crawls foot by foot up the old brick factory each year. It's an Invasive Species: Please Remove flyer. My alphabet jams its fingers into the smallest wounds it can find just to see something wince. Is a jar of honey, lip all sticky, on the counter, trapping flies. My alphabet can’t keep up. Tries anyway. Keeps score. Licks the wounds. Likes the pain. It's a milk carton missing kid taken in by coyotes, howls haunting the grazing fields. My alphabet never apologizes. Never cries, prays, or tells the truth. Never needs help. My alphabet is an ouroboros. A possum, playing dead. A priest-assigned penance, unsaid. It's queer paint-smeared onto a locker, scrubbed off, and then carved into the navy metal, lifted steel glinting, slicing my fingers with the tail of the q. A racoon in a dumpster, thrashing through the trash. My alphabet was born in the Susquehanna. In the Swatara. It's the third report the guidance counselor has ignored. It's the final tree branch snapping off the old oak in a storm. My alphabet is an uppercut, thrown just the way my brother taught me. It's the school uniform my mom could barely afford, torn. My alphabet gets put in the violent kid class. Cries about it in the bathroom. My alphabet wants to know what the fuck did you just say to me? An X in a box for have you ever tried to harm yourself? A yew tree taking root in river silt. A bug zapper killing fireflies instead of mosquitoes.