NaPoWriMo Day 4 : 9.

The days and nights in January are always drowned wet with tobacco,
The quest to get sleep to come in and wrestle me is a struggle
I’ve always been in a hurry to swallow up the days before they gobble me down with what makes them sicker.

The flowers stopped blooming from the seeds the day he said no man could shackle my ring finger.

We do not love here

In an attempt at attempting to love here
The only people that remain are the ones that look like me but they don't see me.