I realized in sixty-five stars,
You were as big as the ocean
And twice as terrifying. You had such a
Pretty way of leaving high tide
In my lungs; I never knew what to do with my hands.
In three years, this girl will be another ghost
Standing in the corner, picking
Dandelions and itchy scabs, pretending she could ever pray
To a dying god. She counts backwards from thirteen
And makes wishes for your skin and
Seven more hours, fifty-six minutes, and sixteen
Seconds and it will be 3:54 and I’ll breathe to sixty
Twenty-nine times before
I can open my eyes again. He said I would break you
Between twenty-four bones
And thirty-three, but my vertebrae can’t remember
All the corpses I never could carry.
I wear the ink of one
Thousand twenty-seven love notes I’d never written
On the black tips of my fingers. It takes trillions of droplets
To make a rainstorm and they all taste like your salt.
My name is seven
Letters long, but it might as well be seven
Light years between this page and the next
Time I can count backwards
From thirteen in
One hundred sixty-seven centimeters and
Two hundred and three words.