forty nine minutes before midnight
my sweaty palms are stitched together
by fingertips
head tilted back, eyes shut tight
i whisper a wish
one all too familiar on my pleading lips
words are so easy
when uttered in solitude.
the minute passes.
i flick a switch and kitchen light falls away like glass.
in the darkness i notice my breaths:
they are no longer mine but the sick respiration
of a girl who has become
what she stole
from herself