Pale as February

I have lost my inherent need to collect rocks,
and the belief in karma.
I have forgotten how to skip rocks,
and the crinkling of my grandmother’s voice.
There is garbage frozen to the dirt.
My lungs are empty, tired.
There are thorns against my paper organs,
and liquor candies in my skin.
Charcoal blood.
Inside my body,
there is a dim light that tastes of cinnamon.
I have forgotten angels.