One-hundred and Forty-seven: Math

I’m waving my arms in the air, intoxicated with independence.
My arms still run track marks from that night I got drunk;
this week, every night is the night I got drunk. I was too sober with you.

I hate all these men looking at me.
It makes me feel beautiful and empty.
I see them scan past my sad eyes:
who hurt her?
I wouldn’t hurt her.

Such stupid men.
They want me because they don’t know me.
At least so many men want you, she said.
But I’ve never cared for mathematics.
I want none of them;
I never did.

I  wish you had added me up in different ways.
I wish I had given you my shinier numbers.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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