I wake up like I do any other day, with my right arm buzzing numb.
Sweat lingering on my skin. 
I taste it. 
Saline.
Impregnated by salt. 
I forget the day.
How did my ancestors do this?
It’s Tuesday. 
Tuesday. 
The God of war & justice.
Tiwaz. 
Equivalent to Mars.
War.
Yes.
The war of finding meaning in anything these days. 
The war of gathering the strength to talk or fuck.
The demon’s win.
Flesh bullies tear open my eyes.
Blind.
Skin tarnished with ants. 
I swallow them.
Bones are stiff with blushing blood.
I feel the pull of the moon in my groin.
IS IT SEX I WANT OR LOVE?
Both, at the same time.
Yes, desire is anal and coffee.
My mind wanders in place. I heal there too. 
The sun feeds me, but I hate how quickly I become fire. 
I congeal and evade God.
I want the Devil to win this morning.
I want my head on his lap, his tongue in my ear.
It’s 8:12 am.
I hear my heartbeat, and I panic.
It won’t always beat.
The coffee tastes like shit. 
I smell something burning.
I smell gasoline.
A sharp pain hits my ribs.
I’m dying.
No, my lifeline is long, past my wrist.
I’m here till I’m at least 108.
Lucky me. 
I got the time wrong, I can’t see.
My eyes are losing their grip.
I picture them dried up, unsexed.
Unsettled.
It’s 9:12 am.
Nothing makes me happy. 
Everything is beautiful. 
My husband looks like Travis Bickle & Paul Newman.
But today he looks like himself.
I want to kiss him, bite his face.
Practice my new moves on him.
Too much work.
I want to finish the book I’ve been panic reading for months.
But I need to clean the bathroom.
I’m tired.
But I just woke up.
I feel a twinge in my groin.
Should I try seducing myself into submission?
Put me in a collar for me to pull on?
SUBMIT
LICK
SPIT
No.
I should write a poem about how my mom won’t let me finish a fucking sentence.
How she bled her last blood in the privacy of her own room while my father was deported, and I slept with my hands between my legs.
A sacrifice, she said.
I felt like I had hung on a cross all night and asked to leave it for the last time.
I want that.
I want to be the scapegoat.
I want my story to mimic hers so that we can have something to talk about besides God. 
“Do you need anything?” my husband asks.
“Some yogurt and berries.” I say.
I change my mind 10 times before he brings it to me.
I picture my coffin.
The one I picked out back in 1996.
I can’t wait to die.
Wait no. 
I want to live.