January

Some evenings I stand in profile, I glance at the hollow eyed thing, lips, teeth, and skin in the mirror:
I say "I don't know that girl"
The weird, endless fetal spiral, knowing I'll do this as long as I'm myself.
That, one moment I'll feel a pace, galloping a pace, a pace, but one stum

ble.

And I feel myself gasp for air,even though myself through the anchor a pace, a pace.
Feet paddle in water, a pace. Or sink. 

I'm always afraid of letting go of the dead weight. Isn't dead far enough? But I'm heavy with my anchor, and tired with the gallop, and I've run out of fine needles to sew up my heartstrings.

At least the cold numbs it.
The air is cold and thick like water.
Take a breath.