“When was the last time you ate?”
Here’s the thing though. Hear me out. I’m dropping weight like atom bombs–
The phantom memory of when you could cup the bird-brittle bones of my body in your hands heavy on both of us–
But it’s the meds, see? I feel nauseous all the time, and when my gut is settled I’m just not hungry. I’m trying. I’m trying.
Skin splits over my lips and between my fingers, everything bloody and splintering. An icy pond shattering. The first crack of lightning before the clouds bust open.
“When was the last time you got any sleep?”
Listen, listen, I…
I spend a lot of time in bed, okay? But when I close my eyes I open them and I’m clammy all over, voice hoarse in the morning, shoulders stiff and tight.
Charcoal smudges under my eyes, tender to the touch, puffy. Almost looks like black eyes instead of bags. But what can I do? Nightmares are side effects of–
The medication. My life experience. This condition.
Sing myself to sleep each night, but little melodies only keep the terror at bay for as long as my voice holds out. I’m trying. I’m trying.
The train screams by, dragging my tongue with it. We both howl, but no one is coming to help. They wheeled a stranger out of my living room on a gurney. I don’t know his name.
I don’t know if he lived.
You fit your fingers in the gaps between my ribs. Slip your hands down in the gap between my hips and the waistband of my shorts.
“You’re disappearing,” you whisper, afraid, alone. “Come back to me.”
I’m trying. I’m trying. It’s not my fault. It’s the, it’s the, it’s the–
Everything is tender. I am haunting my own home. My own bones. My own skin. Evict me. Eject me. Can’t shake the feeling that I have no claim on anything.
Hair clogs the drain every time I try to shower. If I don’t wash it away or brush it out, maybe it will stay mine. Maybe I can keep it.
“Come back to me.”
I’m– I’m trying, I–