When the doctor first told her she was ill she felt like she was swimming in a pool of blankness.  She would sit by the window every night and stare out at the dead bodies in the ground, smoke billowing from her lips.  She had never before felt so connected to something. Pain and death were what made her feel like she truly belonged somewhere. Then she would slowly get up and stare at herself in the mirror. Her arms were always covered in bold bruises and there was a constant source of confused satisfaction regarding them.  I will never stop loving this, she thought to herself.

There was always that scratching sound at night, almost like a woman whispering cries for help from behind the wall.  There was always a recital. Then there was  a period of remembering things vividly and listening to the same song thirty-one times in a row.  I’m back to big hair and biting the skin of my fingers.  I’m tired of talking and getting used to the silence. I’m tired of falling to my knees. Everything is seduction. Everything seduces me, everything seduces him. It’s hard to be better when you keep forgetting that you’re trying.  It’s hard to move past your demons when they keep pushing themselves deep down, back into the heels of your feet.  It’s hard to not step on glass and watch as your broken skin cries out for cover.  It’s hard to push past what’s hard, and it’s impossible to be in one place for too long.  It’s hard to control what swims through your head and how wet your face is when you wake up at 5 in the morning.

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