regressing on my kitchen floor

and just like that i’m back on the tile. 

all of this body and i’m sick of it 

i mean, sick with it. 

this old heart is always emptying itself onto anything it can reach. 

this mouth is always apologizing. 

but it's winter and we still don’t know how to forgive ourselves for all the ways we tried to swallow the cold. 

carving smiles in our cheeks with bathroom razors or box cutters or lighters or pencil sharpeners come undone and calling it forgiveness. 

and god is on the other line telling me he regrets what he did

and i am saying he deserves to Hurt. 

and my heart is still making itself sick on processed love. 

and i forgot to mention that every day is winter. 

and every day i’m sorry. 

and no one is there to stop the bleeding.