follow me. everything is alright.

and yet, somehow, she is able to hurt me again. she knows all the soft spots in which she can sink her fingers, dig around until my gasps are sobs and my sobs become silence. there's blood on the floor and she acts like she can't see it. i slip in it and crack my head on stone.

And I know I'm not perfect at it, this whole loving people thing. It's work. People get hurt. I get hurt. And I can usually find a way to fuck it up. This is evident in the trail of empty beds in my wake, the half-smoked cigarettes and the scars that trace the back of my left calf muscle, reminders of those 10th-grade nights where I spent the evening surrounded by toilet paper and razor blades, looking for a new way to draw a line in the sand.

i keep having this dream where i am made of iron. a metal monstrosity in a world of porcelain teacups.

and i licked your sweat from my lips after telling you goodnight and i knew i could do this forever.

you said there was love to be found here and i dug and i dug and my shovel broke and my trowel fell apart and my fingernails split but i kept digging and now i have hit clay.

i am not unconvinced that january is the longest month of the year. frozen soil and flowers refusing to rise. roots unwilling to spread. the world is an open wound, but when you look inside, it's white and cold.