My professor told me,”write every day”. How do I write every day when my body feels like it’s sinking. Two dark moons are pushing in on my skull, and I think it’s okay. My halo was lost long ago and sometimes I can feel the weight of where it used to be. I am a stranger to writing. It was who I was when I was broken, and then again when I was whole, but I’ve landed in purgatory where I am close to nothing. I have found myself without words in my throat, where rivers of thoughts used to occupy my mind. Now I see barren fields of nothingness, where plentiful poems used to grow. “Write every day” as if putting down words were easy, as if getting out of bed were any easier, as if loving myself enough to keep myself sane was something that seemed like it was possible. It’s not and it doesn’t. Writing means hope and hope means finding a way out, and that means feeling enough to hurt, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Hurting means I might be okay, so instead, I write only when I’m near breaking, just a little, and definitely not every day.