One hundred and six. 
The hungriest bully is the scale in the bathroom; 
I bend, craning loosely desperate to read its face, 
Ripping out my eyes and threading at my waist.
At New Year’s the parents all ask about my weight. 
Their pupils latch onto my bones, my shadow 
Casts a wider net and I see them wish I was the size of that.
I am made of cracked branches and ridges rivered down my back.
I hide like hares at the virgin sound of danger,
And drown in the sounds of the first hiss of rubber on ash.
But you
Are louder 
And your hands are warmer;
Staining rose bruises on my skin,
Fingers inching forth like salacious ivy
That grabs the veil and grasps the sky and 
In my ear, warm oceans whisper
How you love all one hundred and six of me
And your eyes shine with porcelain stars
And everybody loves me.