The hardest days are not the ones where I cry and wail but the ones where I wake up indifferent. Do I kill myself today or do I pick up my phone to see if I can fuck him taking on the same cadence as do I wear the red or the blue socks to the gym. Everything pouring out of the same cereal box and brought methodically to my mouth with the same cardboard texture.
If I decide to go over there he will put the bottle to my lips and I will suckle at the nectar like a baby. Something soft in the way I give my limbs to his hands to manipulate. Whenever he moans my flesh buzzes and we become a separate breed of animal, both our wetnesses sloshing forwards to completion. Against my tongue the taste of slick skin as I decide that hanging seems too painful and besides where will I find a suitable load-bearing pipe anyways. After the deed it is as if we are acquaintances who cannot touch or merge our hands.
My body is full of small ball bearings. I walk home alone and shaking. Slot a quarter between my thighs and twist my breast until my mouth pops open and the baubles clatter out.