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I wanted to know if the curtains would fit,

if I could block out the streetlamp’s glare.

But the yellow metal tongue kept sliding,

measuring nothing but the empty air.

I wrapped it around my own waist instead.

Thirty-four inches of skin and regret.

The numbers are small and they don't mean a thing,

but they’re the only solid facts I can get.

I let go of the lock and it snapped back home,

a jagged, silver tooth biting my thumb.

The tape lies curled on the floor like a snake,

and my hands are cold and my head is numb.