JANUARY CAN’T TELL IF THE GLASS IS HALF EMPTY OR HALF FULL SO SHE BREAKS IT

January has grown too big to share our twin-sized bed.

She is poised, coiled like a snake. Always ready to pounce.

This month was war-torn, and there is still more bloodshed

to come. She spins her finger through candle wax, says, this

whole world is falling apart, and I’m the only one holding

it together. This is a heavy burden, and yet she keeps

her spine straight. I try to take notes. Force my back rigid,

release the tension, pretend the flames dancing on my palm

won’t set fire to my body. As if I wasn’t born with my bones

dipped in gasoline. I ask her what to do when the ghosts

won’t stay dead. She looks at me like I'm the child, like less

than thirty days ago she didn't fit in the palm of my hand.

Says, kick them out of bed, change the locks, pretend

you don’t recognize their face until it becomes true.