My mother tells me to stop
stalling, every second a lost epiphany.
I wonder if she sees
girl eating time

or time eating girl.
Sometime in the last million days
part of me expired. My mind
is a dead end.

I’m not sure when I stopped taking
in breaths. Every morning
I open my tired eyes

and go to sleep. Once, my mother’s
mother taught her those born slower must sacrifice

faster. Sometimes I’m sure
the ocean draws nearer, every drop
of water tastes like salt. I hold my tears close, I drink

herbal tea. It plunges
through the ache of my rib cage
onto the tile floor.

It’s not all bad–
if you’re up before light
hits my mother’s eyes
you might catch me
writing, no more dead

than before. I take yesterday’s breaths
and carry its minutes on my back.
I might smile. I don’t

remember. You might
hear poetry
from my bones.