Last night, I dreamt a gypsy held a razorblade between her right thumb and index finger, drew one more thin line across my wrist and taught me how to turn my scars into treasure maps. I hid blood red pieces of myself in her crabapple hands, sugarcoated my tongue with excuses until she said to me “your veins can only bleed so much warmth before you turn cold entirely”. This morning I tightened the screws on all six of my sharpeners, threw out every jagged glass bottle edge stained rusty with blood and dead skin cells. This morning, you smoked one last cigarette and stapled a nicorette patch to your bicep. This morning, we both chose to live.