I had to change all the little stupid things. I didn’t realize the hassle until the pain overrode it and I [clearly] had no choice. Away messages and pictures, credits, mentions, comments and a memory-trodden lifestyle all bit my fingers, busy at the delete button.

The neon violet alarm clock’s time had to be set later than 32 minutes before his work so I could get that morning kiss and my towel was condemned to loneliness on cold tiles.

The couch suffered the burden of my wariness to our bed.

I read and read and read and read the way I used to when I was 6, 7, 8, 9, and up to my corruption. I wanted to feel like I was flying without wings in the warm vicinity of a knitted blanket, before underwear had to be pretty [no one was going to see it], before boys found out girls didn’t have cooties and before I found out I couldn’t swallow every pain.

I don’t want to laugh when some slut gets a 69-marked paper slip taped to her hair, and I don’t want to know what its like to want forever. I don’t even want to know what its like to want now.

I hear the first few, like I used to do before I wasn’t alone and appreciated my recall of predictions – “It’s going to rain.” I said to no one in particular with a memory-stricken sort of a painted lavender smile.

And then it came crashing down.