doors close on your fingers and tiny crumbs stick to your toes when you walk around the kitchen barefoot in the middle of the night and you know you could sleep if it weren’t for the burning in your heart and the stinging in your legs. i overheard a group of people talking about how awful it must be to be old and have all the many parts of you feel like they’re breaking, and I considered for the moment, how awful it must be to pretend like you’ve got everything together.
I know what it feels like to have every part of me melt away into the dull pain of a lonely night and I’ve woken up breathless and sore from the night before so don’t try and tell me that you don’t remember the feeling. Maybe my way of forgetting is letting men run their fingers across my face while I lay still. Maybe my way of letting go is running down the street in the rain and yelling into the cold air. Maybe I don’t know the first thing about being alone, despite the countless hours staring at blank screens and empty glasses, and maybe I don’t quite know what it feels like to lose everything I love, but I sure as hell like to pretend I do.