(I don’t remember writing this)

I never blink. I’ve stapled my eyes open so that even in my sleep I can see you when you walk out. I have to capture every moment so I’ll have something to occupy my mind after the bricks that make up my sanity have become mere flecks floating through all the places I’ve been: my city, my home, the classroom where my voice was never loud enough to be heard over the collective murmurs of those who saw me as nothing more than the quiet nice girl. My voice has never carried far enough to reach you and every day you take a step back, so no matter how loud my cries sound to me, to you they are no more than the pitiful whimpers of a girl who never felt special. And even I can understand why you wouldn’t want to listen to her. Instead I join the dance, our movements are in synch but they are getting us nowhere. They seem fluid from the outside but our minds are burning out because the beauty the world sees when they look at us is not natural. Some factory worker glued us together and then called it quits, not bothering to give us the instruction manual, instead leaving it up to us to figure out how our hands fit together, and which way to step when the music starts playing. I don’t know how to step out of the dance without tripping over your feet. But I need to. So maybe for now I’ll lower the music, flood the room with silence until there’s no more air for me to breathe and the only option I have left is to jump through the closest window and pray my body is strong enough to take the fall. Maybe you’ll follow. But maybe I’ll learn to dance on my own.