january - we're growing strange stranger strangest; i've sold any hopes of a personality for the rubies i thread though my hair when we go dancing; you've given up your dancing shoes for drinks to get you through those swirling nights
march - the only green i see is under your feet, in dead plants and immortal succulents (you suck the life out of this house; no wonder nothing thrives here); not a dollar more than the ten or ten thousand it takes for you to squeeze a sweetened kind of love from my swollen lips; you maintain a different species of poverty; an ineradicable state of having not but still having so much
may - i buy my own roses on our anniversary, but you give me bruise-flowers on my eyes and heart, colored purple and painful and persistent and permanent and perfect
july - the sun creates silhouettes of the stitch work called our home and my happiness (fragile, even in the midst of a summer day) and the wounds you received the last time you tried talking me out of leaving (finger nails like knives and a suffocating embrace)
september- i'm sorry. i'd regret it (hardly) if i had the chance. wake me up when this life ends.
YOU ARE READING
OPEN-BRAIN SURGERY
Poetryshoved a needle in my brain and now my head won't stop bleeding
