twenty eight red grapes; solid and round, uneaten and on the verge of rotting. i hold them as i let them go. i do not eat them. fungus envelopes the nooks between my fingers as the juices cover every inch of my flesh. i tell myself this is what catharsis feels like. 

twenty one jokes i wrote to tell a girl i once knew. folded away into the lining of my clothes. the paper wrinkles everywhere it isn't supposed to. illegible words written in momentary gaps for momentary solace. i put it down. to let them go, of course. the laughs never return (neither does the hesitation). 

nineteen petals pressed between books i never read. they're five years old and i don't remember where they're from anymore. they still smell of hope, and my fingers itch. i read the first line wrong. again. 

seventeen. 

sixteen candles to bury. to forget. anything to make it all go away. to share. to lose. to run. 

thirteen chocolates to get rid of the aftertaste. my throat still burns. i coat my tongue with thirteen more. it never goes away. coffee tastes sweeter forever. a seemingly good bargain. 

eight photographs to remember. who was I. 

three bags of groceries. eyes wandering to find the slightest hint of joy. 

see how easy it used to be. 

one hand. never one poem. 

never one hand. always one poem.