i have my life measured out for me, in scans and therapies and methodical burns. these are the seconds and the minutes of my clock: the ways she's getting busy fighting death.
my life started in her arms and i dont want hers to end in mine.
my breath is scratching at my lungs and im scratching roses and padlocks onto scrap paper, wanting them scratched into my side. wanting them inked under the skin that's half hers so that something of her is on my outsides, so that something of her is forever.
im not smoking anymore and its making me grit my teeth. i want to breathe in marlboro until my lungs are ash. i want to pickle myself in vodka martinis and tequila chasers. i want to walk up to every man in a bar and make them see god. just so i can feel again.
everyone i've spoken too lately says i sound quiet. they say i sound incomplete, like an unfinished sentence,
and i dont know how to pick it up, because what if when i fill my hands again, there is only space where she once was?