Red, raw skin from trying to wash
away last year's acetone fingerprints
littered on my body. We were born
as paper air planes in spring,
destined to crash
at the end of winter in a landslide,
colliding with the base of the calendar
that hung around my neck like a noose.
Brittle bones with no marrow: I am physically,
emotionally, mentally, spiritually
hallow.
That was last year.
I'm trying to learn to be more introspective
without looking inwards through the barrel
of a gun. Last I checked my bruised and bloodied
heart was dangling out a second story window
tempting me to jump out and save it.
I'm done pretending now.
My paper plane may have crashed
but at least I'm on the ground.