the most wretched fucking month

i dig my fingers into my collarbone
trying to hold on
to myself to earth to the day to air
but it’s the middle of November
and this wretched fucking month
is right before the most wretched fucking month
and she’s going to die
and she already died
and it’s going to keep happening
over and over and over again
and it’s like vomit rising in my throat all day long

and now i must stop —
because the bruising is too deep
for other people to see

and i feel a little better
from talking about these wretched fucking months
even though my hands are still bleeding
and my bones are sore

it’s just this time of year
when everything seems to be taunting me
or warning me
or consoling me
because she’s going to die
and she’s already dead

and i can’t do a damn thing about it