"I'm okay," I whisper, stubbornly forcing my jagged edges back together.
"I'm okay," I murmur to my favorite knife, and it believes me as much as I do.
"I'm okay," I tell my ceiling, and count the breaths I'm still taking.
"I'm okay," I insist to my reflection, and I pretend I believe it is me.
"I'm okay," I mouth to my computer, and it distracts me until I believe.
"I'm okay," I think, and I do not believe myself, so I will say it once more.



"I'm okay," I whisper, stubbornly forcing my jagged edges back together.