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.
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