CW: death/suicide, hospitalization

but wait for you to die. It’s November, the harshest

month, & in some other plane of existence it is not

so cold. The sky lights pink & it does not mean pills,

it does not mean hospital rooms with windows too small

& endless corridors. It’s November & I see your name

on my screen & it feels like something out of a dream,

something tangible until a sharp noise breaks the sleep,

breaks the heart, & I wake up not knowing whether to

mourn or to grieve. I’m sorry I called you that one time.

Your words resonate in my head, in my blood, in the

scratches on my hands. Can you blame me for bringing

up the blood again? It hasn’t left. It hasn’t left at all.