Of the over 5,000 numbers in the English language, it is the number 14 alone that has come to hold a special place in my heart. I'm not a superstitious woman, or a woman at all for that matter. I am ... [+]
distant laughter spills through open windows,
staining my bedroom floor some shade of before.
evening: I cut my hand on something I once said
while scrubbing memories out of the new rug.
I ran my hand under the tap; lifeblood down the drain.
the water, frigid, bestows anesthetic amnesia.
later: the open windows let in a draft, confessions.
the cherry wood floors splinter under the weight.
I tiptoe over rolling wood; stone skipping on water.
closing the windows is like blowing out birthday candles.
midnight: moonlight bleeds through gaps in the window blinds,
tattooing the wall above my bed with bright rectangles.
I hold my throbbing hand up to the light; silent salvation.
silver forgiveness drips down the length of my arm.
morning: I awake with a fresh scab, an answered wish.
under the watery sunrise, my hand is newborn.
I ought to watch the world from behind framed glass,
but, with a breath, I open the windows again.
staining my bedroom floor some shade of before.
evening: I cut my hand on something I once said
while scrubbing memories out of the new rug.
I ran my hand under the tap; lifeblood down the drain.
the water, frigid, bestows anesthetic amnesia.
later: the open windows let in a draft, confessions.
the cherry wood floors splinter under the weight.
I tiptoe over rolling wood; stone skipping on water.
closing the windows is like blowing out birthday candles.
midnight: moonlight bleeds through gaps in the window blinds,
tattooing the wall above my bed with bright rectangles.
I hold my throbbing hand up to the light; silent salvation.
silver forgiveness drips down the length of my arm.
morning: I awake with a fresh scab, an answered wish.
under the watery sunrise, my hand is newborn.
I ought to watch the world from behind framed glass,
but, with a breath, I open the windows again.