Count

I climb the fourth-floor stairs

without thinking about it,

my lips moving in pairs

of numbers, no doubt about it—

one, two, three,

automatic as breathing,

four, five, six—

I'm always beneath the seething

of being unconscious, unaware

that someone is watching me count,

that my lips move in the air,

that it amounts

to something Marcus sees

and calls me out on.

I'm caught doing the thing that eases

my mind as I'm drawn

to the repetition, the ritual,

the way my feet and my voice

align, make it habitual,

leave me no choice

but to admit I've been counting

these stairs my whole life,

that the numbers keep mounting

like a hidden life.

Now I climb and stay silent,

keep the numbers inside,

but I'm still compliant

with the count. I just hide.