#41

Tiny splinters black against pasty skin. Spiraled tight and stuck in me. Scrub it off. The smell, the heaviness, the hair. The chill. The tick. My boiling blood. Shut the fuck up. Where did that come from. The uncomfortable burning heat. The chill. That space between as hard and cold as that cheap piece of jewelry. Twirling around in my puffy hands, making my skin itch of metal and fraud. White sugar itch of sweetness. Stop. Just go to sleep. Spiral tight into his warmth. Self sooth. Coddle. Sleep.

The cold snaps my toes to my tits. Trapped. Blankets shuffle and release the fading bits of you. Another sweet word, another knot. That familiar jolt of my feet leading me away from here. I don’t believe in this.