Ugly Numbers

I watched you wash your hands
like it’s a delicate procedure,
you counted to twenty-five.
I said that is how old I am right now,
and that I want to die
more than you will ever know.
You added more soap,
and counted to eleven.
I said that thirty-six is an ugly number,
you agreed.

I couldn’t wait to be underneath,
with my organs rearranged
in alphabetical order.
Every room is blue, and white,
you said to think of Christmas,
because that’s how I look on the inside.

I dressed in the noisy napkin,
my evening gown,
I took my bow but the fat lady
isn’t going to sing.

The strip tease begins.
Remove my lungs, first, please,
and then my shins.
Take me apart in no sensible order.
I beg and beg until you put my
voice box beside my lungs, and when
I am almost completely dismantled,
I would remind you that I am twenty-five now,
and you would say that
I should never be thirty-six because that is
such an ugly number and
I am already ugly enough.
I agreed.

Originally published in the 2019 Poetry Marathon Anthology and in “Aurelia.”