she’s a human.
     or perhaps a clock, she’s not sure.

she is scribbled out with charcoal and her hands are holding small, pink elephants and a sun. sometimes she finds old post-it notes that still have the faint smell of fall and umbrellas, and hidden rainbows behind curtains.

she has dry lips that taste a little bit like salt and she wishes her name was
november. she spends too much time sitting on fourth floor making sandcastles
in the sky. she is a comma. she wants a tree in her bed but instead she has a
cactus. she is soft arms and small teeth, small smile


it’s half past two and she’s a painted carousel. ‘you believe me, right?’ she points at the watch. ‘this is me.’ pause.

‘you believe me, right?’



she is breaking
up
sentences and sometimes she can’t stop she just can’t stop she just can’t


,

she told me: i am a someone, anyone
                         a something, anything
she told me: i am the number thirty-one and the color green
she told me: i am midnight rooftops,

evening citylights and
three o’ clock clouds

and

she told me: