despite waking up to the same three faces every morning
the sheer total of people in the world rounds me down to 0
offering cruel fantasies of hope and rebirth
but when I hold my dad’s heart in my hands
counting lives no longer matters
it’s bleeding
as a liquid I have no way to count the blood
and I thought I could contain the volume in my palms
so it stains and then it escapes:
a mess I have created
that begins and ends the moment I decided to love
and stop loving