Get the body bag ready.

Say you’re lonely

The mornings here have been bright lately. The sun shines through my closed blinds, even at 6 A.M. I woke up this morning and watched the dust settle on the small porcelain horses that run along my windowsill. It’s May, but the wooden floor was still cold when I lay down on it. I waited till I heard the neighbors pull out of the driveway, and listened for my bus to huff past my house. I waited for my mom to turn the shower off and leave for work before I got back into bed. I had a dream about Robyn, and my brother’s old room. I had a dream about the purple wildflowers that grew under my favorite tree when I was little; those made me wake up, shake the heavy feeling loose like a small nymph, and open the blinds. The past few months it’s been so easy to get out of bed. I thought I had hit the jackpot and found happiness; finally the right combination of pills. But I started sweating them out like a jockey. They never last. I’ll go into a small office next week and take the same small white capsules under a different name. But I should stop relaying on them to get me anywhere. I called you on the phone last week and you told me you loved me for the first time in six years. I’ve been counting. I heard you cry for the first time since the night I kissed you on the forehead in the detox ward. I think that phone call got me farther.