The nights hurt in a way that makes me want to cut myself open, pour this out onto the floor. Walk away from it. Be done. I’m no good at emotional bloodletting: I cut myself and keep it in, flood the cavity, guts reeking of rotting blood. Sulphur and pennies.

Hey, you ever been punched so hard your teeth snapped shut? I want to spit out this bile and my bitten tongue but you laid me out. Now I’m on my back and aspirating every justification, all this fucking understanding.

Until, finally, the sun.

Layering makeup over the dark circles my eyes burned into the ceiling for hours unblinking, smiling a radiant lie into the daylight. Thinking if I fake it hard enough the friction will set fire to the falsehood. It’s a good plan. It’s all I’ve got.

And then the sun sets again. Of course.

Face down in the mattress until it’s time to watch the ceiling. Thinking about bleeding, metaphors for the way this feeling is like ritual murder. Old blood and bad gods, and if not for this idiot confessional you’d never know. I grew up good at breathing through the stranglehold.