poem: 28,835 days

there is an invisible clock running a count in my head. every morning, it ticks. every night, i strain.

28,835 days,

then 28,834.

28,833.

i wanted to kill myself before my 12th birthday. when I was in 6th grade. 4380 days. that was enough for me to decide they could stop coming.

i started attempting suicide at 13. i did not know where Washington D.C was, but i knew where death was and how to bait it as a shark to a shipwreck.

some nights, death is the rabbit and I am the dog - other nights death is a halo of wildfire smoke in the sky.

something has burned. something is burning. you will live under it until you inhale it. the cover of the night becomes suffocating.

i smoke, knowing it hurts the counter.

the counter. the counter.

when do I stop counting?

i am nuzzled into him in a sort of silence you only know after an explosion, he reads a Richard Siken poem aloud while i hide my seared face.

i am dancing in the kitchen, a foster dog learning that loud noises are a symptom of life and not a harbringer of punishment.

when you ask me why i stare at you, i don’t have the heart to tell you i memorize the curves of your face because i know one day i won’t have a chance to see it again.

i do not need to fear where death leads.

there is one path to go.

everyone i love will go with me.