veins.

It’s always something with me,

And I tell myself that it’s fine.

Call it my sixth sense, 

A mercurial thing. 

Count cars, 

Count breaths.

Count fingers, 

Count steps. 

Now, I’m 28 lying on my bedroom floor.

Begging God for less,

But he’s giving me more

By turning self-soothing into some kind of game. 

I’m left with ice running down my wrist,

Hoping it seeps into my veins 

I counted 43 cars, 

77 breaths.

95 fingers, 

I counted 132 steps.

My ice has melted, 

My veins are still warm.