Workhorse

In the morning when the cold hurts most, starvation the cancer within it's host.
This is frightening and this is profane; the way that we ease into age.
We only need this bread to let us know that hunger lies unaligned with being alone.
This is frightening...
(age secures us our space in the storm where we will weather worn like a well worked whore)
Time will take us by our tender wounds and scab us hard and leave us blue.
White light, white light, white light
This can't be right
One life?
Despite who knew that I didn't want to be with you
I don't want to die alone...