Love through winter
Those were the months that blurred. I know I’m supposed to talk about them, but it’s impossible to talk about them in a concrete way because there is nothing connecting me to them, not really. The only way I am connected to those months is the fact that I was breathing during them. I cannot tell you much more about the five Januaries I had. I didn’t sleep much and I wasn’t awake just as often. I kissed empty girls and I hid beneath down blankets and I drank cheap vodka, but that’s all. I can’t tell you what ended the five Januaries beyond the girl who burned through me with her Roman candle voice. I ended up living with her in her ugly, terrible apartment in the city. Our bed was in the living room on the floor and I never slept better beside anyone but her. She was the messiest person I’d ever met and I loved her. Those were the months I saw more shooting stars than I thought possible, and when I was sure I was recovering. I tried to leave everything behind for her. I tried to stuff it beneath our couch, and into the back of the closet and into the love letters addressed to my dead self. It was messy. I don’t think it would have made a difference if I’d been tidier about it. Time unpacks everyone’s carefully packed drawers. The night I took my shit and left, I learned that my stars I’d been wishing on had been dying cigarettes tossed from the balcony of our upstairs neighbors when one nearly caught in my hair.
Taylor is a queer writer from Maine. She prefers to write about love gone sour and the discomfort of owning a body. Her poetry can be found such places as littledeathlit and Postscript Magazine among others. Her short fiction lives in Southchild Lit, Coffin Bell Journal, and upcoming in Wrongdoing Magazine, as well as many more.