January 64th. The stubble on my chin has been growing for T minus one

decade. February still has 45 days in a month where strangers want my hair

shortened to compensate for the long days; Every second given is a hormonal pill

losing effectiveness. Every day a wedding dress tears if I wore it in my head. Every

day marriage to me is eating fast food and passing it out without gaining nutrients. Every

day love becomes a beer that hammers me into blacking out from all that pain. One day

I might wash my skin out once I am done with clearing my makeup. On the 89th

I stare at this laptop screen. By the 93rd day of the week I am bingeing on illusions of

myself dragging my limp figure from the shore, squeezing every acupoint with salvaged warmth.