The Harris-Benedict Principle

the walls are faded with dreams she could never quite let go

her bed sprawled with pale limbs and whispers in the dark

sodium stains on her pillow-she flips it over, a blank slate

echoes rattle in the cavernous space between costal grooves

she ignores it in favor of the quadratic curve of her stomach

a concave dip where mathematical precision manifests form high-order derivatives and caloric intake

her phone trembles on the bedside table

there are seventeen messages from a man whose hands know her better than the shape of her name in his mouth

she cannot predict his actions-equations cannot hold him like arms can

instead she stares at the ceiling that holds no answers

her lips roll through numbers

(1 : apple, 1 : cube of cheese, 3 : brussel sprouts)

as she counts herself to sleep


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