At night I throw out all the furniture and dance.
Every time the cracks on my feet dissolve into cracks
on the marble floor, another star dies beside my moon.
Where can I keep the bones?
They’re not like shattered dinner plates in my mother’s cupboards.
They’re like ruins of an earthquake lodged at the back of my throat,
like I had stopped setting an alarm before bed,
like I had locked all the doors before anyone can enter.
Have I vomited all that dust?
I am too young, and I have emptied myself too much.
Or have I swallowed the sun?
I am weaning off my medication, and the monsoon
in my stomach must be the world being born.
Maybe this is how morning begins — light burning holes
through my chest, leaking out of my skin.
Every month stolen off my youth will find me.
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