The truth is we just want something different, she says on the screen, while you swallow another mouthful of bourbon, another mouthful of tears, while you, attempt to avoid scoring new gashes into your pale winter skin.
You fail, and fail, and
fail.
He sends apartment listings for Mexico City, feigns brighter futures, you wish your rotted mind remembered how to believe in blue skies painted across your eyelids but all you have is disease. Repot the plants on the windowsill, spend a whole day sleeping.
It turns out you can bleed
without the bed sheets turning
red.
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