Three

The lucky number seems to be three. I can’t get past it— my interest waivers and I feel as though someone has taken a figurative cloth and ever so gently placed it firmly over my nose and mouth. It’s then I cannot breathe. It’s then I only think of escape routes. It’s then I think of waking up beaten or lying next to a man as he says “at least take your pants off it’s not like it’s rape—“ Or the time another walks into the joint, sees me at work, and says “you’re good-looking, you’ll do for the day.” It’s then I don’t regret making it to three each time— least I make it out.