Today I tore off my fingernails
like Post-It notes
and arranged them in a semi-circle
on my dresser alongside photos of us
(you are a Sharpie-scribbled face),
a crinkled half-empty bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos,
and sixteen Tootsie Roll wrappers.
I picked up my thumb
and grinded it into dusty molecules
until it taste of
a first date—

cold sweat
rubbed into jeans, staining
hands a permanent blue;
tarnished metal of a Coke
shared across the table
and I would always take
the tab off—for luck,
I had laughed.
Luck didn’t save us.
I swallowed

and sat at my window seat,
watching the sun fling
rainbows against my pane.
My hands are one finger
Closer to being clean
of you.
So tomorrow
I will eat my pinky.