17

on the night that you broke your eyes open,

cried into candy packets you found at the petrol station smelling like gasoline and regret

in your still-standing baby teeth like slabs of sugared marble there were

s e v e n t e e n

letters. and seventeen of them were to

(you?me?you?me?youmeyoumeyoumeyoumeyoumeyoume)

,

lifetimes bottled up in the sea glass you found on the sand at 2 years; you wanted your hair to grow long;

past lives like sour cola bottles you chewed up and left

in the corner of the playroom with your nose all

blood

y 

from the fights you thought you could win 

at preschool

play-doh and multiplication tables, brainscape modeled by the people you 

(thought you)

trusted.

later you would stand on the sidewalk after school with your non-existent airpods  s c r e a m i n g

and dump your Bs into the drain and tuck gum underneath your tongue like a secret 'cause it was,

then

one-seven with your hair grown out like you always wanted it to be and and 

and now your car has run out of gas.