birthday poem

standing in my kitchen at 11:35 pm
nine days before i turn twenty-seven
my wet hair wrapped in a towel
scooping the end of a bag of tortilla chips
into my mouth, bare toe scratching bare ankle
i am trying to think of myself in this moment
the way i will remember me, trying to project myself
into the future and look back and say ah yes that girl
look at her! try to feel my future self's reminiscing
tenderness, try to let it warm the cool pit of anxious
in my gut; self-compassion comes down to trickery
playing the part of my own old soul, saving this moment
for her, the salty chips, my greasy fingers, this empty bag,
my dark kitchen, so she'll remember me now then