Some days,
she does not
bother getting out of bed.
Some days,
she looks
from the clock to the wall.
Some days,
she drinks
more than she eats.
Some days,
she vomits
more than she drinks.
Some days,
she cries,
but there are never tears.
Some days,
she smokes.
Some days,
she burns
her fingertips.
Some days,
she writes
on the wall over her bed.
Some days,
she reads
the lies.
Some days,
she sees
his eyes behind her own.
Some days,
she sees
his knives, red and hot.
Some days,
she begs him
for his return.
Some days,
she is
more alone than she thought possible.
Some days,
she bleeds
inside her broken heart.
Some days,
she is
nothing.
Some days,
she is
enough.
The Old Jones 
That wrenched me all over the place and made me feel things in the way that nothing artificial ever does. This is great, Jones, great. But I do wonder what it’s about, with a title that mysterious.
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Worlds and lives and loves.
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