It is difficult to hold anything when your bones are made of chalk, when each footstep upstairs jangles like a trumpet blast. Alone in the living room, I lengthen the house’s soft gurgles into the slavering maw of the monster in my shadow, biting its cuticles. In the bedroom, you breathe softly while I sit with my back perfectly straight on the couch.
When the tears have collected into a puddle in your collarbone, you know you have gotten somewhere. You begin to scribble notes in smeared mascara, whispering that you will remember this reality tomorrow, after the fit has passed. You send out a prayer for Xanax. You speak dully to the cockroaches, consider poison. Despise the way you fold inward, like a child’s origami. Wait until the sky shows a hint of caring to lie back down and watch the shadows move.