This Time Last Year 

By

I wandered around a hospital parking lot blasting 

that one Mountain Goats song on repeat 

at 3:30 in the morning. This time last year  

I chain smoked along the Charles 

trying to suck out the thing that didn’t necessarily 

claw at my insides but scratched  

every now and again just to remind me  

it was there. Sometimes I wake up coughing blood 

and wonder what damage has been done 

overnight. Sometimes I stain my sheets 

and don’t remember how all this blood 

got inside me in the first place. I wandered around 

that hospital parking lot because 

they said that something broke inside her blood, 

and I figured I had extra she could borrow. 

Or keep. Or throw away, I’d still give it 

in a heartbeat.