I am switching places with the stones in your bones. My arms are heavy because and I can no longer hold you up. The blood in my veins runs laps and I double take every time a strike doesn’t run through smoothly. It’s rough to think of things this way. I guess everything fell apart a day ago when nothing came out right.

Can you recall how dim the lighting was in the basement that night? I ran my fingers up and down my thighs in anxious habit. I was wearing the summer heat on my flesh. Though the ghosts kept me locked in my body, you kept me screaming to get out. Why have you made me feel that my frame is a prison? It’s not fair to place blame.

Last fall I broke my finger in your car door. You shut the door in anger, you opened it in spite. I sat down on your passenger seat and it sighed a caution warning. You were steaming; I listened to the leather exhale. Calling me stupid, you looked to me for confirmation. As I reached for the door, you slammed it. It was official then, the way you broke me had made its way to the surface.

I used to count down the seconds until you got here. I also used to count down the seconds until you left. One night you never got here, so I never had to count at all.