I hate those days when I feel the way I did before. I wake up. Spend too much time on my appearance to appease people I don’t care about. Get to school and play the role of the carefree loner who doesn’t need anyone. Come home. Get in the shower and sit, remember a few years ago when I felt like there was nothing left. I’m not sure if I can even cry anymore though I wish desperately that I could. I feel like I’m about to burst; seven years pregnant with suppressed emotions and expression. I get out of the shower and curl up in front of the mirror and stare at the scars brought out from the heat. This one for self loathing. That one for rejection. The one on my hip from feeling inadequate. I realize I’m full of emptiness. Something without substance is always filled with emptiness. I see but don’t recognize the person in the mirror. Short, skinny, and sour I look nothing like the child in the photo albums, brimming with happiness. She died seven years back along with the ability to feel. I make poor decisions, craving to feel something. I don’t care though. What difference does it make when it’s over and there is nothing you can do about it. Just a memory, just a blip in time and space on the way to something more peaceful. I hate feeling this way, its how I felt before I fell apart.
But I love the days when I’m with you. You is everyone who’s made me smile or see hope. It’s not an individual but an entirety. You is my brother, who encourages me to unwind and unravel. You is my neighbor who told me I was bliss. You is my friend that writes me post cards from New York just to remind me I’m not alone. You who sends me your writing, making me like I’m of some importantance. I love those days with You. I hold each of them like delicately, like handling a sliver of my heart, then box them up to remind me that they happened, happen, and will happen again. And for that, I refuse to fall apart.