i want to give away everything.
because the weight of my body
reminds me every time i move:
you are still here.

i run until my legs are numb
and chew my lips to blood.
i hold guilt in muscle memory
and it tastes like sleeping drunk;

like car exhaust; like walking home,
tongue weighted with a kiss i did not want
and suddenly, on frostbitten sidewalks
i am small.

guilt is the taste of icicles.
vomit.
handsoap.
hunger.

i fantasize about nonexistence,
but i'm scared of the night
and in my dreams, i die.
everyone i've loved has killed me in my sleep.

i trace the outline of my hand
to remind myself i am not a bird.
my bones are not hollow.

morning will come.
the sun will split the air
and i will not be empty.