It's been months since I wanted to break out of my body. Okay, that's a lie. But it's been days. Days since I've felt static scorch underneath my skin, felt colours cutting into my eyes, had to explain that these aren't metaphors. There are so many ways you can get used to living. I wonder if anyone else feels empty when they don't have creatures clawing up through their throat.

I don't know what art is, or what okay is. I like to believe I know it when I feel it, but I'm not so sure I would. I think people expect me to be a lot more insightful than I am right now. I don't think they take into account that boredom is stressful, and stress can shatter you like roots in concrete. Maybe I'm growing. But I don't even know if I'm bored. I feel like a lot of different people, or a lot of aspects of different people, all trying to learn how to stand one another.

It's been days since I wanted to break out of my body. I'm watching the sunrise from the wrong side, but I did sleep. I'm not curling in corners or walking alone at 4 a.m. I'm not thinking of my friends talking about me in past tense. I listen to the murmur of the coffee maker, to the droplets of song from backyard birds. And I am not sure where I stand, but I am standing.