My Calender, 18th

I’ll count the days on my calendar for pleasure

every day, on this day, leading up to the number

I am the calendar, I am the memory

Rows and rows across my sleeve

Minutes are what I bleed

The aftermath on the floor

The days I spent waiting

Punctured on my skin, grey memoirs

grey into red

that fades as time ahead 

Still resemble my growing patience 

My sin was overdue 

My sin, the highest crime

I scratch for mercy

And I cry for pity 

And I bleed 

18th