I washed my hair for the first time in three weeks and learned to stop walking on tiptoes I am the bitter taste at the back of your throat. Some nights, I turn on every light in the house and sit awake picking skin from my chapped lips I am full-circle and puncture wounds. I wanted to be the girl to wear her heart on her sleeve but my armband was embroidered with a *******
I was misinformed. Romanticised. There isn't romance in 4am shudders, in skin stuck to the teal sofa or the sweat between my shoulder blades. In yellow stained fingers nicotine or black stained lungs tar. For protection, I tried pouring a ring of salt - and found myself sitting cross-legged on the floor rubbing salt into my wounds No ritual can protect me from myself.
I probably ought to edit this, I like leaving it spontaneous and I want to map my progression.