isolation

i. you whisper the lyrics to lana del rey songs under your breath late at night and they sound like prayers. or maybe crying. you were never sure where the line was drawn between those actions.

ii. you pop shiny, hard pieces of gum in your mouth and pretend theyre pills. you pretend that the bloodshot eyes and the haziness in your head were there only after you took them.

iii. youre getting tired of looking at your reflection. you have the same nose and freckle and dark, dark eyes youve always had.

iv. its early in the morning and youre shaking, ruining your shirt by rubbing snot all over it. you want to throw away your phone. smash it against the pearly marble. what was the point of having so many contacts if none of them could help? whats the point of calling them if, afterwards, they give you long side glances like youre a baby bird fallen out of its nest, skin too pink and delicate to touch.

v. you kill the ants in your room methodically, crushing them. theyre only dead when you hear the pronounced cracking of their exoskeletons. youre not scared of them but youre scared of their tiny dead bodies, which’re scattered around the room for months at a time. you try hard not to look.

vi. you pilfer one of your mothers white cigarettes but you never light it.

vii. in her youth, your grandmother was convinced by a nun that she was going to hell. she took hot, hot baths to prepare herself. you dont believe in hell, but you sit in the tub anyway. your breath comes out hard and your skin is flushed pink for long afterwards.

viii. one day you wake up with the sun streaming in through the curtains. you finally text him and he replies and you forget why you were so upset in the first place.

ix. you used to believe that if you wished for death hard enough, it would come.