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i’m not entirely sure i’m alive, sometimes.
saying that makes me seem crazy or unhinged.
maybe i am, maybe it matters,
but i don’t really think it does.
you have your hands on my thigh.
you carve my name on it with your nails
and with the blood dripping down onto the sofa we sit on,
you ask me if it hurt.
i’m honest for once, i say it did.
you tell me it wouldn’t hurt if i were dead
i smile and look at you and say,
if you live your whole life dizzy you don’t know what stationary feels like.
