you are not thirty three years old.

you are thirty three apologies, thirty

three vacant hugs, thirty three empty

pizza boxes. the way a ticking clock

can drive a person mad is the way

i can still call you family.

i fold myself thirty three times

so i can fit into the arms

of the friends i love, in hopes they never

learn to read our family's language of

thirty three wine bottles and thirty

three holidays cancelled.

you are not thirty three years old, you

are thirty three sterile rooms to scream in,

thirty three tears i wiped as i ran down the

school hallway when i figured out you

were force fed to the psychiatrist.

how many times can you groan

before you heave and finally let

your thirty three thousand lies kill us all