on making it count


when the cracks in my palms wanted to
leak secrets like loose faucets, i resisted
stitching them back together with people
who did not deserve me.

i pressed my hands against a mirror, told
the glass to read all that i had been through,
and disregarded the response.

i won myself over like a trophy,
left my body crumbled in a heap
on the cold tile of the shower,
built myself back up again.

my eyes left salt water streaks across my
pillowcase and i didn't do the laundry for
weeks to trick myself into moving on.

i wavered between wanting the impossible
and expecting the inevitable.

i created all of my tomorrows by holding on
as if there wouldn't be any.


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