stuck on 12,000

You said that she was breathing as if it was something to be ashamed of, as if she shouldn't gasp so loudly when the words in her throat are pressing down on her lungs. I know what that's like now. The hands over my mouth shoved my screams back inside, and I thought my tears were blood, thought I was shedding the lining of my eyes like the lining of my uterus, could taste it on my lips with their fingerprints laced through. I could feel my lungs contract like they were trying to hug themselves, tuck their arms tight around their sides and curl up on the carpet, let the leaves falling from trees cover them until even the moon couldn't find them anymore. She'd search all night, moving idly across the sky, searching each corner, night after night, but never find anyone. I feel like that sometimes, in the moments I spend in the corners of my room gluing bottle caps to the ceiling and praying the never fall. My hands clasp each other. My fingers are bent so long they forget how to stand up straight. They can see themselves in each other's fingernails, all mouthing the same silent words before they choke.

I have a warning for you. I'm not sure what it says because it's too far away to read, but I'm getting closer every day. I have two pairs of glasses in case the first one breaks but apparently glass isn't as fragile as it used to be. They've made it so it won't shatter, the shards falling like snowflakes into my eyes, reflecting light into my pupils growing smaller with each moment until they're cut away. My warning for you is on a big orange sign on the back of my left palm. It's hiding the scar where the nail went through. The other one healed into the shape of a heart so I want to show it to you, show it to everyone, keep it on my surface and convince it not to float away.

I carve your name into the loaves of bread I bake. My bosom is dusty with flour. It hardens in the cracks of my hands. The bread crumbs I spill look like stars. They taste like light mixing with dust on my tongue like your skin does.

There are flowers on your pillowcases. I tried to name them once. First I said daisy, then rose, then lily, but I think they're a flower I've never seen before. When you sleep, your cheek is pressed against them and you wake up with petals on your skin. You taste like nectar. The ocean tastes like salt. I know this only because I've walked into it with my wounds still open, felt it sting, felt my flesh say it is soil that will never grow anything again. I cling to the peaks of waves although I know they're already breaking. I cling to your forearm while you're walking away. My fingers leave white streaks on your skin where they stop your blood for a moment. I don't want these streaks to turn blue. I don't want to be like the people who have carved their faces into your bodies because they want to own you, measure you into individual bags to sell at stands along the street to gain their two cents. I want to bring my clenched fist to them and drop my teeth into their palms when they're expecting coins. I want them to look at my bloody molars, shiny with spit that isn't yet dry, and see themselves in the cavities. I want them to weep, open their bags, and pour your body back into your soul. I want to see you glow like you did the first time I saw you. I want to glow, but not in the dark between streetlights where my bones are like neon signs exposing every bend and every broken edge. I don't want them to know the pain in my wrist when I fell off the swing the summer before second grade. I don't want them to feel my pulse in my center, moving in tides down my body like I am a shoreline. I don't want them to like the sight of their skin beneath my fingernails, to smell their scent on my shirt. I want to be a flower so ugly no one would pick it, choose it to decapitate, bring home its dead body to display on the kitchen table at dinner time. I want to be a flower on your pillowcase, just in front of where you lay your cheek at night so I can feel your breath like wind in my hair and remember that we are both very much alive.

You tell me I have a pretty face. I want to peel it off and hand it to you, walk away painting myself a mask with watercolor. I want to look like a cloud to you, like a puff of white with light shining through, then grow darker and send as much energy as I can hurtling toward Earth. The surface of our planet is hit by lightning three thousand times a minute. I want to believe I was born from this light, that I blind people who look at me too closely and only have to exist for a moment to be heard. I want people to count the seconds between when I appear and when they hear me to know how far away I am. I think about thunder storms when I was young. The trees leaned in toward the house, wind jerking their branches in every direction, and we all realized how fragile roofs are and how close the floor is to the ceiling. Mom would take us into the basement when the power went out. There were no windows and we couldn't see the lightning, but we could hear the thunder. I still love storms. I remember when they meant spending all day in the little back room in the basement, telling stories by candlelight, teaching Taylor the alphabet in darkness so thick I couldn't see the lines forming on my mother's face, her skin like broken shingles.

I can't stop coughing. My clothes smell of campfires and my sweat is drenched in charcoal. I have rings under my eyes that remind me of raccoons, and I think I am tired when I see myself, then realize how dark my fingertips are and how often I've been trying to rub away my eyelashes, catch them all and blow them away. When I have extras, I give you my wishes. I tell you to think very hard but know all you're noticing is the way my eyelashes are transparent at the base and black at the top. They look like a reflection of something that doesn't exist yet. They look like my great grandparents. I never understood why I didn't look like my father until I stared into his eyes and noticed the same gold growing around his pupils that spreads outward from mine. If you cut through my center, there will be more gold rings you can count for every year I've been alive. My mother keeps her gold wedding ring in the bottom drawer of her least favorite jewelry box. My father proposed with a handful of gems. He was younger than I've ever seen him, and I imagine his hands without callouses although I've never known them that way. They were softer than you'd expect, grasping me by the arms and lifting me over piles of lumber, his fist around mine while he taught me where to hold the hammer to pound in nails. I was always afraid he would hit my thumb, sometimes moved it the moment before the hammer came down so the nail would fall over and we'd leave a dent in the wood. My dad called it a dimple, and said it added character. I think about that now when I pace messy rooms with piles of unfinished work growing around me. I think about it while I count my talents on one finger and ignore the others. You told me once I have the smallest pinkies you've ever seen. There's not much you can do with pinkies that small.