I pour an unmeasured amount of ***** into my black coffee, careless.
I could care less.
I roll and shake the bottle of Advil in my hand, shooka-shooka. The rattle of these pink pills, that do in fact taste like candy to me, calm my nerves down. My nails, bitten down to the core, are painted black. I could see blue where the paint chipped. Cold.
In my other hand, laxatives. A whole box of them in my bony grip.
This was what control was. I could control my heart, my intake of food, the way my belly bloated. I could control my emotions, what could hurt me and what wouldn't.
Control.