The damage doesn’t look the same as it used to.
I laugh, I read, I call friends to meet up. I put on my red lipstick and attack, like Coco would advise.
I cook tofu things, I keep up my Instagram. I clean the bathtub.
The damage has different outfits, it seems.
I have changed, maybe more than I had realized. Maybe much less in parts of me that I would have liked to have shed completely.
But I still sleep 12 hours or none at all. I still crowd my bed with clothes and sheets of paper. I still hang on threads, always hoping for them to grow stronger on their own, or fall apart completely. My limbs are still heavy with anxiety. I still have dreams of realities much harsher than mine, but that feel quite similar. You know those nightmares in which you want to walk, or run, or stand up, and your limbs don’t move? You gotta wake up. WAKE UP. Stand up. Please.
And I have read a lot of books. Bookmarked in my head are all the recipes, all the pharmacies available, all the 10-step guides. I hoped I would never need them but somehow I knew I would some day. The problem with books is they don’t do it for you. They have the map to get out but what if your legs are broken, what if you are? How do you get anywhere then?
These damages seem new to the neighborhood, but their luggage has been here forever.
Hello again. I wasn’t expecting you.