I don’t need the snapped rope or the healed scars on my throat to know how lucky I am.

All my hits come from my misses and it feels no longer write/right on target, how life is not sleeping all day and fighting all night, myself vs. my emotions, and I am more than the rambling, erased phone messages from my exes, and the burden to myself. I was still the best secret you (n)ever had. “play nice” but the only thing taking turns was my stomach.

No guts, all glory. I am this close to having what I could not kill for, but I will keep trying. The bodies are under the stairs and the bruises from the fights are on my back. There is blood on the shovel and the evidence is ashes.

Putting up fi(r)st fights? Guilty as charged. These excuses are starting to hold less water than your lungs.

I am going to close my eyes and cross my fingers and keep pretending that this good sick feeling in my stomach can be diagnosed as ‘coincidence’.