You learned to count when
you were just two years young,
right?
Wrong, you have to learn to count again
when you turn your heart into a kite,
and let it fly until it rests in someone’s
unworthy hands who will steer
your kite back to you,
all battered and broken,
when they’re done.

You have not learned to count yet,
it’s okay.
You have not learned to count
until you forgive him,
and kiss boys who you won’t marry,
and stop forgetting to kiss your father goodnight,
because you were too caught up in wishing
he was kissing you goodnight instead.
Count your steps and realize
you can fall in love again, but
don’t stop there -
you think you’ve learned
but you haven’t learned
to count
until you see his hands
on another girl’s hips
and his face on her lips,
until your stomach threatens to push itself
right out of your very own mouth,
and everything you’ve learned to count -
one, two, three,
comes rushing out before you can stop it.

Again, again, again,
you have to teach yourself to count,
to love, to forgive, to move on,
to understand that you will never again
love someone who will make you learn
how to count
all over again.