a testament to vulnerability

I don’t remember the things I should remember, like what day it was yesterday or how many states the US consists of. I mean to look it up but I forget. I try counting the stars but I lose track. Of time, of myself. It’s getting dark and light again and I don’t believe I’ve slept even if my sheets are creased. They smell of everyone but me. I empty the cupboards and want the new year to begin. I count pennies and put them all in my pockets and feel my jeans gravitating towards the sweltering tarmac, melting the coppers into cigarettes and bottles and polaroid film. If I buy more cans, more rice, more everything, if I refill our cupboards, if I resend all the invitations and make you all come over and pretend you’ve never been before and we would throw slumber parties on the lawn and our neighbours would talk about us over breakfast and this could be the new year. This could be the new year when I hear my name on their lips and know for a fact that I exist.