facts
1. The cat at my apartment isn't really mine. He showed up one day, sure as any other omen; something between “everything ends,” and “everything is fine.” Maybe he says both.
2. My hat has stars woven into the fabric void. My gloves are covered in supernovas, and my earrings are carved from ancient galaxies. There is a constellation etched in black ink along my hip.
3. The streelight outside my window makes my room gleam at night. There is a mirror that catches sunlight in the mornings, angry red and soft orange and blended yellow. Walls do not stay white in my room.
4. Bracelets clink together when I turn my wrists. Rings thunk on tables and long nails click as I tap them. A golden magein-david rattles on the golden chain when I shake my head. Silence never sat well in my mind.
5. I broke my wrist when I was was nine, falling out of a tree behind my house. When I was fourteen, a doctor put seven pins in my lower leg. My bones crack when I stand up. I set off metal detectors. My body is barely human anymore.