You can be my birthday candles. 12 candles for 24 years. It has a good balance to it.

2, 4, 6.
My family did not mark the anniversaries of our births. With 8 children, whose pockets had money for presents and cakes?
I was the youngest, until my brother arrived. The first boy, daddy so proud. We dressed him like a baby doll. My father never minded. He was not a girl. That was all. We were too young to understand.

8, 10, 12.
My 12th birthday. My mother quietly took me to an expensive cake shop in town, just us two. Our shocking secret. Sacher torte, 2 slices. With pink candles that nearly melted the cake. In their glow, there was the life my mother desired. Sweetness. Luxury. The liberty for extravagance.

14, 16, 18.
I met him at 18. He lit me with his stories. He explained what had eaten my mother. And then he left. His stories, which once made sense, offered now only their ending, like a trail of smoke.

20, 22, 24
My dress is tight over you, my twelve thick candles. Ready to burn. Out we go.