My fingers don’t grip well anymore. I would sit outside every single morning in December and stare out into the nothingness. I’ve always loved the deep winter air, the frozen earth. It felt like life was on pause. But now, all it does is hurt my flesh. My skin can no longer breathe. Instead, it crumbles into porcelain dust and blows away with every breath the earth takes. My hair, surprisingly, remains real and fluid. The rich black shines like obsidian but nicks my face like a razor. I don’t bleed blood. I bleed shards of glass. And it hurts and I cry my glass tears but no sound escapes my rosebud lips. I can no longer speak so I write instead. But my fingers don’t grip well anymore and sometimes they crumble. Sometimes they even disappear.


He used to love me. He loved how soft I was, how tender my breasts were. How I used to smile and sing and nibble on his ears. But he went away too, just like everyone else. Sometimes when I look into the mirror I see him…but that’s only when I break the mirror first. I really do miss him. I wonder if he still thinks of me. Not many people even remember my name. I’m not sure if I even do.

I can’t do much anymore except write. I have notebooks and notebooks filled with my words, my terribly meaningless words. I write about him a lot and how he used to love me. I write about that one day where his love stabbed me in the back and caused me to dissipate into the floor. I was never the same after that. I became what I am now. He laughed and laughed and thought it was one wonderful joke. I think he was trying to protect himself from the pain of my failures but all he did was laugh. Over and over again. I laughed back but he stole my voice before I could make any sound.

I tried to die but nothing happened. I tried to take pills but I couldn’t open the bottle. My hands turned to water and spilled everywhere. I tried to slit my wrists but then I remembered I no longer have any veins. I tried to jump off the top of my home but all I did was float back down and turn into fine dust. It took days to come back together.

So now during these December mornings, I swim under the waves of my oblivion. It’s thick and blue and doesn’t hurt when I go to it. I see him there, smiling at me. Telling me I am beautiful. There are mirrors everywhere and I have color in my cheeks. I say I love him and he doesn’t laugh.

I don’t breathe there and he doesn’t laugh.

And then I wake up and realize that the air is stale, that my hands don’t grip well anymore, and that all I have are my words. And my thoughts. And my voice that has been stolen and shoved into my oblivion that certainly does not exist. And I cry my glass tears and I write my meaningless words and I throw myself into nothing and crumble, yet again, into a pile of pale porcelain. And he still laughs.

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