right now

she blinks it off like all the bad things
happened to another person
it’s not even optimism,
more
“it never ever happened,
i am who i am at this
moment only”

she remembers the first sip of
brandy at fifteen –
a sweet burn in the
pit of her belly,
or when the ink left its
mark permanently on the inside
of her hip at eighteen

fires that could be self-contained

she’s just cold
chilled right down to the bone
(the doctor says she’s low on iron,
the marrow in her bones
wasn’t even enough anymore)

nostalgia and sentimentality
was just her thing,
you know,
and re-inventing yourself
takes a lot more energy than she has
right now

a/n: I just miss having something to care about.