Pearl earrings, cool in my closed fist, I think only of ovaries.
Of the maybe-babies sliding gentle into a garden, tissue petals unfolding all around. 
Dying slow in a bed of blooming roses.
Destined to be buried under a quarter moon.

So, I leave them on the dressing table, deciding to wear no jewels.
No pearls. No gold or silver. Not even a paper crown today, my birthday. 

Barefoot, I stand on the sidewalk and release all of my balloons. Pink green orange turning to black dots, disappearing into the sun.
I pretend they contain the souls of the two-headed boy I love.
Goodbye, I am letting go.

And it should feel sad, but mostly it comes as a relief, bordering on weightlessness, like I too could fly up into the sun. Burn my wings, plummet down to earth, land safely in a bed of feathers, try again.

When I am told to make a wish, I refuse, silently.
Goodbye, I am letting go.
Because my wishes are tied to wanting. 

And want is a fang always pressing into your flesh, threatening to slice a vital artery.

Instead, I breathe the ring of flames, pretend it is spiraling down into the pit of my heart. 
Burning the house of desire down.
Killing the two-headed boy, trapped inside.

As I pretend to wish, knit my eyebrows together in false-concentration, I am really only thinking of scooping his ashes into a glass jar.
To take someplace far away from here.
To where the maybe-babies go.
To where I’d never have to see him again.