while waiting for this, too, to pass--

i count breaths, count heartbeats,

count waves of nausea. i steeple

my fingertips one by one, pretend

i’m pressing my hands to yours.

i count five,

pretend it’s ten.

 

by ‘you,’ i mean anyone at all. instead,

i curl into myself, draw quilts around

my bitter body. i ignore every message,

pretend i’m not alone. i tap a staccato beat

across bruises i don’t remember forming.

my clothes turn to sandpaper. my back

is torn to bloody pulp.

 

i strip, turn to the mirror. my skin is whole,

untarnished. my breath puffs in the air,

and i am not sure what is real. snow brushes

my shoulders, mingles with dirty laundry

on my floor. still, i am entranced

by the perfect impurity of my reflection.

 

dark streaks appear across my skin--

i blacken the snow as i touch it, already

piles of soot fall to my feet. i step

back, away from the mirror;

the soot follows.

 

i used to fly in dreams so vivid

i thought they were real. i used to wake up

and still feel the pull of my infant wings

beating against time. i could have sworn

that i could soar but when i turn

my back to the mirror,

it’s only soot that splits the marble

of my body.

 

in my dreams, it is winter

and the snow is falling faster

than i can desecrate it. soon, i am

nothing more than a smudge

on the pristine landscape. in my dreams,

i can fly.

 

i fall back into my body like sleet,

try to forgive myself for knowing of cold.

i count the pinprick chills. count heartbeats,

count breaths;

i wait for this, too, to pass.