i am twenty one years old
and i have forgotten what it
was like to not want to be
dead. the sun is bright and
the air is summer-warmed
and i wrap myself in the
quiet and try to remember
how to breathe.

i am something
fragile, something
to be wrapped in
newspaper and
stored in a box in
the attic for next
use. "handle with
care" is scrawled
along my ribs in
shaky sharpie
hand, over my
hollow bones and
translucent skin.