i am laying on the green moleskin couch of my living room
the quilt my aunt made for my grandmother is my shroud
i am motionless
i blink
slow
my eyelids burn on the insides
it is 1:56 am
we have been broken up for a grand total of 9 hours
i want you back


i have sent you 9 messages in the past five minutes.
unintentionally,
one for each hour
my dog breathes as if sleep is all she’s ever known
slow
the heating vents crack and rattle
my house sobs almost as loud as i did
i listen


as i lay on my shrine
i am the center of the universe
still
while everything i’ve ever known swirls around me
slow
i do not move
not because the thought of never having you around me again is crippling
but because i do not want to shake and destroy any more galaxies
in this,
i am not selfish
i tell myself
i am not selfish
but the problem is i know what i’ve done
and soon i realize
my sacrifice
was still for me
not you
i shake


finally up
i open the fridge
slow
the thing i stopped doing so often
thanks to you
i stare
i see a morgue
cartons and bowls
bottles and cans
cold
and ready to be dissected
by the scalpel that is my brain
telling me
the only way to feel better
is to replace you
with as many calories as possible
and by disregarding serving sizes
i do the math