almost midnight justwrite

There are envelopes on your open palms. I know what's inside, but I'm afraid to look. I spill seeds on the floor behind me while I walk, but nothing ever grows from the linoleum, at least nothing with roots. I imagine your fingers reaching deep into my chest, curling themselves around my ribcage like it's a fence trying to keep them out. My heart will watch, ignorant, letting you convince it my body is a prison. On the mornings when there is fog thick outside my window, I'm always surprised when it doesn't swallow my screams, when the strangers on the street stop and look up at me, their eyes glossy marbles behind a lace curtain, a tablecloth hung on the clothesline. I only ever learned to take out stains with scissors, and I hung each on my wall so I could memorize its shadow, like trying to draw a snowflake before it melts away, recording a heartbeat haphazardly as though the next one is a sure thing. I keep pictures of you in my music box, but it still won't sing unless you're in the room. I tell it to give up its fantasies, but it turns toward the wall, still silent, its tears leaving rings on the table. My mom never taught me to use a coaster. I seal these secrets in an envelope I hope you never find. I hang it on the clothesline to be dampened by the fog, hope I can learn to stop screaming. I used to know your name, but now I just know your fingers, gripping my ribcage, roots deep beneath my skin.