I retreat to lick my wounds. Soak myself in something bigger, soak myself in "everlasting", whatever that means, however long it lasts. He is like the look of sideways glances, and it's always second-guessing. It's always a step in the wrong direction with me, why do I do this to myself, dry sobbing the story of my life with my face pressed to the carpet and she's singing. Blink once if you understand me. Blink twice if you stopped giving a fuck. Don't blink at all if you're numb.

My god, those hands are life and death. I seek salvation in the small stuff. Don't get me wrong, I'm a bigger picture kind of girl, but god damn can you make my insides curl. I write high school poetry and forget myself. Delete, write raps that make me big, make me mean. I am unthinking, unfeeling, I can be cold too. All that ice at your fingertips and my god you are good at it.

Two hours of sleep and I dream that a man rips another man limb from limb. I wake up feeling ill, cold sweat, unable to place myself. Feeling bodiless I scramble for my limbs, touch every single one until I'm sure I'm me, sure I didn't fall apart in my sleep, nope, I'm here. I'm always here. What's that thing I always say when people ask me if I'm okay? Oh yeah, I'm always okay.

Count my ribs count the years on my hands god I am so small what is the use. Moth to the flame, motherfucker, here I go. There are two types of people and I am one of them. I am not going to make myself regret, I promise, every night between my fingers I lose things, I'm trying not to lose myself. The things inside my head, damn, you don't want to know. I spout apologies for myself like prayers, like it'll do me any good, like I am a thing worth saving.