The night is murderous.

I've parked my skin under the same sky

for the past 3 months.

I collect myself near the corners of my house

that have never been touched by past memories

that sting my already salted wounds.

(already assaulted wounds).

I can tell that I'm ready,

feet barely touching the wooden slabs

feet barely touching earth.

the cracks in the walls

are whispering.

the wind blows straight through them,

straight through us,

until we can end our conversations

with conversations on end.

I don't want to smoke anymore

this whole, dying thing really gets old.

I keep hearing from several people

that if I keep this up

I'm going to die.

If I keep living

I will die.