if i could turn time over in my hands like a pocket-worn quarter, i’d slip into the months before i pulled my ribcage apart. it’s alright, though—i’ve been here before. knee-deep in the shrapnel of another fallen star. the burden of love cuts into my shoulders so deeply that atlas looks upon me with pity. you got all of that? he asks, in the same way that i ask my mom when she’s carrying in all of the grocery bags at once. no, i say. but i don’t know who i am without it.