I think of times in elapsed homes and wonder if binding my hands with yours would have treated that isolation. I remember how cold my skin would become and I felt as if my veins would ice over like a great glacier beneath my frame. Not a single thing made sense while I was seven years old, not a single moment of reassurance was granted. Another afternoon I spent in a large wooden canvas that was my home, I felt as broken as a victim. Sit next to me while my limbs shake mercilessly; remind me why I’m here.
I have woken up to one more morning where my façade is raw and my heart feels constricted. I knew this was serious when your name was spoken for the first time and I lost my mind. I have lost my mind.