Measure

I know how to measure my value.

I measure in the centimeter sizes of fingerprints. In the shape your mouth makes.

I know how to measure my value.

I measure in closed fist gut punches, gas stoves, and permission slips.

I measure in the words “but” and “not that bad” and “I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it”. I measure in “but he was nice to us”’s and “we don’t want to get involved”’s and “what do you want from me”’s.

I measure my value in medicine and minutes in closets. I measure in days without roofs, the amount of whiskey in your glass, in the cost of a moving van. I measure in the voice memo you sent me by accident, laughing.

I know the sum of everything.

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