Don’t care

I don't wear seatbelts anymore. Maybe it's to make up for a rebellious nature I've never had, or maybe I just don't like constructing my lungs anymore than they already are.

I lean too far over the edge of bridges and stare too long outside my mother's window on the twentieth floor of her office building. I don't shy away from the thought of flattening against the car parallel parked below; I invite the feeling of weightlessness to take over.

I let my bicycle almost careen over the ledge, almost pull me into the ditch, almost barrel into the stop sign. I think I just want to know if the car will stop for me if I pull out slow enough. And sometimes I wonder if I'll ever let myself hit the sign.

I used to wrap my curtains around my neck and tightrope walk along the foot of my bed. Once, I fell and sprained my ankle. I didn't tell anybody how it happened.

I used to hold onto the top of my dresser to see if it would fall on me. I would hang upside down until the blood rushed to my head because I liked the feeling. I would stop eating for a day, so I could pretend I was in the Jamestown colony. I would hold white crayons to my lips and wonder about lung cancer. I would hold my breath until my face turned blue.

I don't want to die, not really. It's just that sometimes I wouldn't care if I did.