The Last Time I Slept in This Bed

I was involved in the serious business of ripping apart my own body. I’d run my fingers over it, seeking but never finding the right point of entry, so having to tear one myself, though midway through I’d always tire, and let night enter like a silver needle, sewing my eyelids shut. This was not an original practice, but thinking, for a time, that it was felt like being able to choose when spring would arrive: engineering an April that opened like a parasol, even in thoroughest winter.