It needs to be hands and wrists, and I used to run my fingers over your throat and count the way your heart beat; and I used to want to breathe in everything about you. I used to want to die.

I used to be so stuck between “I love you” and “it hurts, oh, it hurts.” It always, always hurts. And my words always choked themselves on the roof of my mouth, and I move in and out of squares and circles, and I hate the way the walls feel so stiff, and melting into fluid always feels so perfect like the pixies. And it’s time to dance, and ignore the bleeding heart, and ignore my lack of artistry, and it’s time you started to remember who I was, and who we were, and I hope I didn’t make this all up in my head.