monday 12am

I kissed him for the first time in the entryway to the apartment, and when he left he turned around and leaned against the doorframe and grinned. Then he turned around again and ran down the four stairs to the landing and then leapt down the last six, and for a moment time froze: him, in the air, arms spread and jacket billowing back like wings, suspended over the red brick steps.

It's March. I'm alive against the odds, my cat holds my hand when I sleep, and I can get any flavor  milkshake for $3. The idea that I could make anyone feel like flying is amazing.

the drugs.

The drugs make me nauseous, the drugs make me shaky. They make me tired, leave me leaning against doorframes and sprawled across the floor. They make me dizzy when I'm sitting down.

The drugs make me overaffectionate. Leave me saying "I love you" too early and kissing cheeks, stroking hair.  Leave me spacy, laughing too loudly and saying things that don't quite make sense, drunk when I'm sober. The drugs make me cussy, have me saying fuckfuckfuckfuck soft and Tourettsian in the empty stairwell of the library.

I hate them. I hate them because they remind me that I'm not completely in control of my emotions or thoughts or behaviors; and because I can't cope without them. I hate the thought that I need them, couldn't quit even though I want to. The idea that I might not be alive without them.

I feel helpless and I feel blind in the dark. I'm sorry for this. I'll delete it soon.

light on my shoulders

I woke up too early this morning but I was drenched in warm yellow sunlight, and the dust floated on the heat from the radiator, sparkling like glitter. I think it was a miracle God wanted me to see. The apartment is empty, but I can hear the faintest music drifting in through the window. I got up and took my meds and sprayed the tub with mold killer. I toasted my cinnamon raison bagel.

There's a violent, ugly bruise on the inside of my elbow where they pricked the vein for my blood test. There's sky blue paint in irregular smears all across my forearm from the bedroom painting job of a friend of a friend. There's a slashed pink scar across my wrist, fresh but healing, from what my therapist calls "intense anger turned inward."

That feels like a more accurate representation of my emotions than anything else I could say about them. It's January and I'm still alive. I'm sitting in sunlight.

Don't call back.

I am drinking coffee at 2 p.m.  I should be leaving now but I can't quite make it happen. There are only two weeks of school left, but they seem insurmountable. None of the places I call "home" are home. I'm a migratory bird and winter is biting.

He hung up the phone first last night, and I got that sudden hollow feeling again. It's been gone for so long. Somehow, it's still as familiar as the whistle your dog returns to.

I'm going to grow my hair longer than it's ever been. I'll become Samson in rainbow hues. I need strength to back up this cornered feeling: this fierceness arisen.

The words don't bubble like they used to. The thoughts are short and shadowed. Because they're ugly, I don't express them. I dress silence in smiles.

Two weeks.

(I'm not sure how to end this. Except that the coffee doesn't help the sadness. Things have been hard recently. I don't want to lie about it. But things will get better. I know it. I wait for it.)

to-do list for November

• get another piercing
• eat a doughnut
• wear cool jackets
• take care

poem for a clouded Tuesday

Unable to sleep, or pray, I stand
by the window looking out
at moonstruck trees a December storm
has bowed with ice.

Maple and mountain ash bend
under its glassy weight,
their cracked branches falling upon
the frozen snow.

The trees themselves, as in winters past,
will survive their burdening,
broken thrive. And am I less to You,
my God, than they?

—Ice Storm by Robert Hayden

a song that sounds like a text tone

My hair matches my favorite necklace. Today I got two cups of coffee for the price of the smaller one, and got to share it with a math-class friend. It's been raining since last Thursday. My feet are still wet from the walk to class at 8:30 this morning. I got a 90 on my math test, which was enough for my professor to write very good work in cramped, scratchy letters next to the score. My friends are all struggling, multilaterally, every single one. Today I thought too much about the way the world would be without me.

As I walked back across campus in the rain, I saw it pouring into the pond and churning the water to a boil. Across from that, the trees that mark the boundary were turning yellow and orange, and the smoke from the power site rose grey among them. Everything was silver. Everything gleamed.