August 16, 2015 § Leave a comment

Curled up into my body. I fall asleep on the couch because it’s uncomfortable. It wakes me up in the night, so I remember my dreams. The notebook I write all of them in. There should be a reason, what am I using them for? Am I trying to understand myself? I think too much about myself already. Knowing the reasons why you feel like shit doesn’t stop you from feeling like shit.

I have a dictionary on the coffee table downstairs. Highlighters, pens, why are there so many of them? You were over, the lights were out, I tried to hide it from you, but you found out. I love words. Reading certain sentences, paragraphs for me is so intense and I’ve loved them since I first learned how to read.

When I was little I used to curl up under my parents’ desks around the house with boxes of saltine crackers and margarine, making little sandwiches out of both, squishing the margarine through the cracker holes, reading my books all night. Scholastic book orders were one of the most exciting times of my child life.

My ability to read is the only marker I have of when I end up very sick. The only thing that really bothers me. I can end up in a corner of my apartment, in cold sweats, crying for days, too terrified to make it anywhere past a few feet around myself, but as long as I have my books it’s fine. When I end up unable to concentrate on those words though, I’m scared. Danger, Will Robinson.


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