It’s so loud inside my head. I remember once, after working myself into a wreck, I told you I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t bear to do it. I’m sorry, you told me, but that’s really not my fault. You were right.
I was a little kid and I wanted it all—fairies in a cabin in the woods, dancing princesses, an adventure sitting on the tip of your tongue—I wanted someone to rip me out of the life I was living into somewhere I was meant to be. I’m under no such delusions now.
Talking to you is like falling into a memory, everything blurred and overexposed. I can make out the barest shapes of your faces but the feeling comes back like a drug and I can’t wake up, I can’t pull my head out of the water. Someone will find me like this, I think to myself, but I still can’t do it. The bathtub is overflowing.
The girl next to me at the bar leaned over to tell me a secret and before I knew it I was sitting under a table, terrified a stray bullet would tear my heart out. The last thing I remember is telling her it’s not so bad, dying, I mean. Like getting punched in the face. It’s a hell of a lot better than getting shot, and then it’s all gone.
Remember something good. Remember being small and getting to stir the cookie dough next to dad? Remember the door opening when he came home? Remember dancing in the living room?
Stop remembering. Stop it. It’s impossible to get that again, so hold on to the water. Don’t even think about turning off the faucet.
There’s a voice at the foot of the bed. There’s another. There’s a whole choir here, all singing about the weather, and you’re convinced this is because you watched that stupid TV show before bed. Hush, hush, the rain will come soon. Hush, hush, He’ll take you away from here.
Everything smells wrong inside my head. I think I wanted too much. I think I’m disgusting.
