On silent padding feet you brush slowly past the bedroom door to slip between white pressed sheets.
You were perched on the windowsill staring, staring at the sky, frozen till your fingers began to tingle, itching to open the latch and run bare legged through the whispering grass that boarders the craggy road to your front door.
Every night you retreat, softly, into your room with a book of fairy tales and a cup of tea, chamomile, that flushes against your bruised fingertips, bruised from constantly rubbing tiny circle at your temples, tension headaches.
You let the kettle whistle too long every time, fill your cup with boiling water too hot to drink for a while, clutch the handle but long to press your palms to the cup’s polished sides, press till your skin blisters with heat.
Instead you ripple the liquid’s surface with your steady breath out, breathe back in the steam.
You want to go out and drive in the night, the radio a low buzz so you might hear the starlight. You want to fly too fast around a corner and dip the nose of your car into the glassy lake by the side of the road, see how long your driver’s seat takes to fill with water, see who would pull you out, dripping pond water out the cuffs of your jeans
And your pockets,
And the hollow in your eyes.
And who might pull you out?
Might they then lace their fingers through yours, concerned, or intrigued, propose institutionalization…
Between your pressed white sheets you wonder what it might be like to drink, dance, and destroy yourself.
You wonder how to inhale nicotine, instead of steam.
You wonder what it’s like to cry so hard mascara tinged rivers run down your cheeks and into the corners of your mouth and afterwards
You know there is something lurking behind the edges of your reflection and knowing this, you do not rise to the windowsill. You do not try to fly.
Instead, you sleep.