Where wolves turn the moon a monster

Where looking out onto the frozen lake at hand suspended beneath the surface. Where heart shaped placemats precede snow flurries. Where you place your fingers in the dip between my hips and breasts, and I‘m nervous when it shrinks. Where remember it by a hippo on campus. Where slathering my body in citrus kidnapping. Where a cold-footed scar stays put. Where a hysterical version calls the cold feet. Where we were lost in a place that looked familiar. where the word suicide. Where “I don’t want to have sex.” Where gluttony will do the trick. Where I french-tuck myself into bed, thinking about truths. Where recklessly feeding nightmares more content. Where a somehow qtip sound grows loud enough to swallow all thoughts and flip me upside down. Where the same bad decisions make themselves in denial. Where waking up to the first of the month means more than two rabbits. Where, gratitude ghosts. Where too many and too few people saying the word suicide. Where someone always somersaults onto the third rail, acrobatic. Where retelling is mistaken for processing. Where tears are thrown at a brick wall wearing a blindfold. Where Jesus hung himself on the cross. Where many, many shovels. Where somewhere in the back of my mind