dot-to-dot

The bruise on my knee is gone, has disappeared entirely save for a pinprick scab where the escalator step broke the skin. But it still hurts when I touch it. It's still tender. It isn't healed under the surface, even though any evidence of a wound is gone.

A few days ago, the doctor asked, "So why haven't you killed yourself? What's stopping you?" And I told her the truth. The memory isn't a victory, but it is a comfort.

Today I went to the library, and in the stacks, it felt like I could breathe for the first time in days. Books have always been my safest place. I was just there to get a card, and maybe look around, but I wasn't going to take anything home. I repeated this to myself during the six-block walk from my apartment. I am a master of self-delusion. On the way home, I carried the books against my side, the gold-lettered spines aligned.

(They say college is a good place to make connections. These are the ones I'm making.)

things that happen without words

Rain is drumming on the roof and the sound is a silver haze.

Lately, the phone doesn't ring for days at a time.

She asked and I lied, but later her eyes kept flicking back to my wrist.

the way you sounded when you told me you didn't know what I should do

A few days ago, at 5:30 in the morning, I listened to this song four times in a row as I sat alone in an airport, watching the sun rise through the plate glass window.  This song meant a lot to me a year ago. And now here I am, relating to it again. The light may even seem a little dimmer, a little farther, than it did then.

And I know you are a cynic but I think I can convince you, yeah, cause broken people can get better if they really want to. Or at least that's what I have to tell myself if I am hoping to survive.