I’ve always wondered if I know love.

I know
stomachs hurting from laughter, a mother’s perfume dabbed wrist to wrist and behind the ears, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon filling a house, shared lip gloss swiped on my lips and hers, a kiss on the forehead and the nose and then both cheeks, grass-stained jeans and the scent of chlorine from days I wish I remembered,
dancing and jumping and laughing
and breathing

I know
bruised knees and scabby elbows, runny mascara and smeared lipstick, broken glass and angry whispers, hiding under the covers, sitting with the lights off, chipped nail polish and picked-at hangnails and sad songs on repeat,
yelling and hurting and crying
and breathing

I know
the feeling of when you’ve inhaled deeper than you thought you could, when your chest hurts and you think your sternum might just crack in half if you don’t exhale right now. And then you do exhale, and you’re hit with a relief you didn’t know you could feel.
I know that love is in the sighs and the gasps, in the snorts and gentle inhales, in the shortness of breath and the calmness after.
It is in the pain and the peace. The noise and the silence.
The happy and the sad.

Love is in everything.
I know that much.

I think I think too much.

In my head, there are links
Between the things that I think  
That shouldn’t quite touch.

I’m drifting through time and space,
Erratically bouncing surface to surface  
In search of a purpose for the cacophony inside my head.

I wonder if it needs to make sense
or if I should just
Accept the immense presence of all this nonsense.

age 7:
i remember being 6 and desperate to be 7— my sister had a book to gift me for the occasion, and i was positively vibrating with the anticipation of it becoming mine. 7’s always been my lucky number. the date of my birth, the days in the week, the start of my phone number. and so, 7 came and went, and suddenly i was 8.

age 8:
i moved to georgia. it didn’t hurt nearly as much as i’d expected, as much as i’d hoped. I’d wanted to feel pain in the real way, to wail and sob like a DCOM protagonist, to shut myself in my room until my mother stood the doorway to talk me down. pain makes feelings matter; who am i, if i’ve never suffered? but instead, i was fine. i said goodbye to my friends, packed my bags, and left. i haven’t spoken to any of them since.

age 10:
i finally hit the double digits. i was in fourth grade. coincidentally, it was also the first time in my life that a crush had liked me back. i felt like a real woman. i remember straightening my hair and wearing my favorite pink outfit to school, a matching shirt and skirt, box of cupcakes for the class clutched in hand. they sang happy birthday and i somehow forgot what sadness was.

age 11:
the first time i cried on a birthday.

ages 13-15:
more tears.

age 16:
sweet sixteen! this was it! i planned a party, heart thumping in my chest wondering if anyone would come. i didn’t cry on my birthday, but i cried the morning of the party. i wonder if that still counts. when the blurred vision of my tears cleared, i saw the puzzle pieces of my life falling into place. i remember thinking: “i’m finally who i’m meant to be.” (spoiler: i was wrong)

age 18:
an adult. i cried (again), but who doesn’t? i celebrated with my family, counting down the days between then and graduation. 18. one of my favorite one direction songs; it dawned on me that i only had a year left to fall in love so i could play it at my wedding. 18. it dawned on me that my youth was slipping away. in a year, i’d be celebrating my birthday in a city miles and miles away, distanced from my family for the first time in my life. (spoiler: i was wrong about that, too) 18. it feels so scary, getting old.

age 19:
today. i haven’t cried yet. i wonder if i will. i wonder a lot, these days. this day is not how i imagined it; this year is not either. i think i am okay with that, though. expectations, in my life, have often led to disappointment. 19 19 19. i missed my window with the 1D song, but i think i’m okay with that, too. 19 19 19. i repeat the word until it loses all meaning. 19 19 19. i begin to wonder if it ever had any. 19 19 19. life is an incomprehensible amalgamation of numbers words moments symbols ideas. 19 19 19. none of them mean anything. 19 19 19. or perhaps all of them mean everything? 19 19 19. today, i am 19. it means nothing. it means everything.
19 19 19.
i close my eyes and make a wish.

are you tired yet? are you tired?

do you hear the screams? do you hear the wails? the pain?

are you tired yet? are you tired?

do you smell the mass graves (you always smell them before you see them)? do you smell the ash? the rotting flesh?

are you tired yet? are you tired?

do you feel the dirt under your fingernails (it’ll never be washed clean)? do you feel the skin rubbed raw? do you feel the muscles so tense that tendons give way? your eyes are still open— do you feel the burn yet?

are you tired yet? are you tired?

do you taste the blood? do you taste the iron? the red clay coating your tongue?

are you tired yet? are you tired?

do you see the blood? the broken glass? the smoke? the fire?

are you tired yet? are you tired?
can you see it yet? can you see anything?
are you tired?

tape your eyes open. you are not allowed to look away.

I was always so afraid that the monster would get me.

I’d hide under the bed, breath held silent while my heart thumped in my throat, and

Wait. And

Wait. And

Wait.

Then I’d hear it: the soft
pat pat pat
Of feet nearing me.
Tears blurring my eyes, fighting to keep the whimpers down, I’d

Wait.

Then he’d arrive, bearing sharp teeth and pale skin and eyes full of malice.
He never hurt me the way I expected (teeth, blood, the works).
It was always hands on my throat; the air would leave my lungs and I’d feel my trachea collapsing, plum-colored bruises taking shape on my neck as I felt the life leaving my body.
At the last second, I’d feel the air rush back in.
Sit up straight in bed.
Wipe the tears I didn’t feel myself cry.
Stare at the wall. And

Wait.

I could never escape it, not in any real way.
I tried hiding in the bathroom. The closet. Under the covers. Sometimes I’d even try to run—
It always ended the same way.
Until he stopped coming.
(I wonder if he ever really did stop, though.)
Sometimes, I find myself sitting up straight in bed, wiping tear-stained cheeks, gaze locked in The Great Stare. And I

Wait.

In the dreamland between conscious and un-, I wonder what caused me to wake. But then I hear it:

pat pat pat