addiction

i am a little bit addicted to the cold and the pain:

i’ve never said i’m not a masochist but my skin is so dry,

my shins peel and my lips bleed. i fit myself into the corner

and my mouth twists. my spine doesn’t quite touch the wall

but my shoulder blades do; my feet are flat on the floor.

the light shining in the window is surprisingly beautiful,

lines snaked through the yellow.

the snow is hypnotic, though. there is so much of it this winter,

and i know i grow repetitive. i spit blood onto my hand

and i listen to the same songs: i smear the thumbprint on my window

and i am right here, right here.