It was a mundane Tuesday morning, which started as Tuesdays typically do, I boarded the bus at exactly 9:16 AM with a cup of coffee in hand. The grey-haired driver mumbled a good morning, she was an older woman, probably in her late 60s.

"Morning Greta," I said in passing, offering a tight smile and slight nod. This was all routine, same coffee, same time boarding the bus, same driver with the same greeting, and even the same seat. The cool leather brushed against my thighs as I slid into my spot, resting my head on the window before slipping in my earbuds. At least the audiobooks weren't always the same. My best friend had told me a while back that my dedication to routine was maddening, and she was probably right. Each day seemed more lifeless and devoid of color than the last. I strained to pay attention to the true crime novel rambling in my ear but my mind wandered to the scenery outside. A blur of Chicago passing by, some people rushing to their unknown destinations while others casually strolled on, so many lives that I'll never know anything about.

As we approached Bell Street, I gathered my messenger bag and slung it over my shoulder. The bus slowed to a screeching stop before the doors opened. Greta mumbled something else as I exited, and this time I couldn't find the energy to respond, not that she paid much attention. After a glance at my watch, the time read 9:34 AM, which meant I'd be exactly 1 minute late. The street that was usually buzzing with chatter was eerily quiet except for distant yelling.

"- you people think you know it all! You don't know anything!" A thin man stood in the middle of the street while cars honked, and passersby gathered on the sidewalks to watch. His thin, long brown hair clung to his scalp just as his battered and beaten clothes clung to him. His body resembled that of a skeleton, the notches of his spine peaking through the holes of his once-white t-shirt. With some more inaudible yelling, he thrust a cardboard sign up.

"They will come for us! They will come for us all! There is no escaping the sins we have committed!" Then he turned towards the direction I was standing, leaving me to fight the urge to gasp. Crimson streams leaked from his eyes as if his tears were blood, sliding over hollow cheekbones and dripping onto the pavement. With one last cry, he dropped to his knees before authorities pushed their way through to him, but even with him being drug away nobody moved an inch. The crazed man's last words ran through my mind over and over; death has awoken. The cardboard sign lay cast aside with writing almost too small to read. Cautiously I lifted it closer to see a list of names scribbled across it. Mine included.

Snow glistens, lonesome landscapes

Shadowed blue hues, short winter days

I dreamt of freedom inside a prison cage

like a bird with clipped wings, you kept me there

grown accustomed to the breadcrumbs, you called it love

one day you left the cage open, I stumbled out

Now my aching broken heart calls his name,

cherry red lipstick-stained cigarettes

I don't feel like a winner,

now that I've left for a while back in December

Trust me, I wanted to stay

but now it's February and I'm merely miles away

I've wrote you poetry everyday

Dreaming of breadcrumbs and a birdcage

You've made a home within me, between my ribcage and my throat. I let you sink your teeth in me, and a bite you took. My head is in my palms. Tired. Frustrated. Filthy self hatred. Blame. I blame you. I blame the woman staring back at me from that broken bathroom mirror. You cover it up. Try to at least. With makeup. With fake love. They say don't bite the hand that feeds you, but you've left my bowl empty and I crave you. You let me sink my teeth in you, and a bite I took.

If I could take your addiction, I’d press my lips to yours and let it slither in like a hunting snake. I palmed the cigarette from your pack, palmed it, lit it, smoked it. It burnt my throat. It hurt. I didn’t ask for another. I crushed the pills from your pocket. Crushed them. You always looked so beautiful with your head down. Head down and nose against the glass of the table. I breathed in. Like you, it was euphoric. But my nose bled the next day, dripped onto my favorite pillow. Once white, once pure, now stained. Eyes red, my head is in your lap, I don't sleep in my own bed. I need you, I want you, I have to have you. Itches. My skin itches. I'm sweating but shivering, the light is off, the blinds are drawn, where did you go? You've been gone. I palmed a cigarette from my pack, I palmed it, I lit it, smoked it. It burnt my throat. It filled my lungs. I lit another, trading one addiction for another. Kissing my illness into my new lover.

The worst part of falling in love with you, is watching you fall out of it. You never directly look at me anymore, your eyes hold no light as they wander around the room as you speak. You won't admit it but the reason you're so unhappy is because you come home to me. The front door will slam shut as the weight of your steps creak the floorboards, you will greet the dog, set your keys on the counter, and walk past me. I am a ghost in your presence. The memories we have haunt me. You used to love me fiercely, like it consumed you entirely. I think that's why I hold onto hope even if it's cutting me like gripping broken glass. I have never loved anyone the way I love you, I have never lived like I've lived in moments beside you.

However, I am growing weak, my love. My wounds bleed, and the crimson stream is staining my perception of you. You used to destroy me with a look, a single word. Now I look you in the face while you rip at my skin, and you're confused as to why I won't let you in. The worst part of falling in love with you, is falling out of it.

A letter you'll never read.

He didn't think I'd be home early. He was too occupied to hear my car tires crunch the driveway gravel, or the doorknob turn. Obliviously I stepped into the kitchen, humming to myself while pouring a glass of water. That’s when I heard it, low but distinctive. I almost doubted myself, the sound of my glass filling was much too loud to hear something so faint from our bedroom. I stopped pouring. There it was again. I felt betrayal wash over me, shock. I walked quietly down the hallway to confront my husband, who was watching our show without me.

I write you because I have questions I long to know the answer to. Who am I really? Am I someone you just threw together, just a series of quick random decisions? Am I a friend of yours? Am I a lover? Why do you write me to be this way? You created me for a reason. You created me with imperfections. You gave me feelings, thoughts, and dreams. I guess through this rant I realized something. I'm a piece of you, right?