Panozzo, I feel as though I’ve lost quite a bit of heart in all of this, and it’s my fault. My life, right now, happens in cycles, ones that leave me without a leg to stand on. I can no longer call myself much of anything besides foggy-headed, for lack of want for salt to lick from my open sores. Each menstrual visit begins with vitality, dwindles down to a dull sadness that comes and goes like the murky ocean, and spits me up, no worse for wear, on some far shore, opposite my own body. I slowly feed again, crossing my Jordan and waiting until the moon brings in the next set of tides.
Every week is worse because it’s a typical workweek. I hate every day and find solace in the night, where the blue light from my phone accompanies me to a headache
