lately I feel a lot like I'm dying

His Face All Red

I am a shipwreck. My sorrow sits on my tongue with all the delicate heft of a humming bird's skull, graceful bone, fluted lines, sharp enough to slaughter the heart of a flower, sweet as a metal pike. I wander my files, catalogue my house, looking for more things to sell, searching for a way to break through the notion that I will be trapped here past thirty, past every promise I've ever made. I do not sleep through the night.