It's still me.

eventually i shrug. my glass of wine looks so much fuller than it had before. "i dunno," i settle on. "i mean. i'm not gonna have anyone else find it, and i just- i wanted someone to know. it's weird but i just- i just wanted you to know. it scares me to have nobody know. does that make sense?"

she breathes through her nose and shakes her head. hair from her bun falls into her face and for a moment i think she might cut off a finger. "oh, don't be so negative." she tells me. "i'm sure you'll find someone."

it takes a moment for that to sink in. "oh. oh! oh no, i don't actually want anyone- i'm good as is, really."

"don't be silly," she chastises, and her bells have turned to sirens. "you just haven't found the right person."

"ah." i say. "ah."

she's chopping chicken and i'm sitting against the fridge on the floor. "there's a mole on my inner thigh." i tell her. her chopping stops for a second and she gives me a look.

"okay." she tells me. the chopping continues. i take a sip of wine. this isn't-

celery. vodka. moles.

"why are you telling me this?"

i don't know. i do know. will you understand if i tell you?

she starts becoming me. she's chopping carrots when the knife slides and cuts our finger, but the pain doesn't register. suddenly i'm where she was standing, thumb bleeding, knife falling against the cutting board with a dull thump.

"fuck," we both say. i look around and i'm the only one here. i'm always the only one here. "fuck! i've gotta- this has to go right somehow, okay, again, agai-"

she's standing against my kitchen counter trying to dice celery with a vodka bottle sitting net to her when i tell her there's a mole on my left inner thigh. her giggles sound like bubbles and i'm basking in the suds. "why are you telling me this?" she asks.

"because," i hum with my head against the fridge door, its vibrations tingling against my skull. "you're you."

"hell yeah i am." she says, "but why does- why does that relate with your right thigh mole?"

"left thigh."

"of course."

"i- i dunno, like. i mean. you read the shitty poetry, you know? and it's all- it's all 'let me memorize your body babygirl' and it's 'i wanna count all your scars, your fingers, your teeth' like some fucked up body accountant but like, it's supposed to be romantic or whatever, yeah. and people have like, these people who know that sort of shit. lovers or fuck buddies or one night stands. i'm not gonna have that, and like, like, like-"

she tosses celery pieces the size of quarters into the crockpot and takes a swig of vodka. "you're slurring, bud."

i groan and put my glass to the ground. wine sloshes out- she wordlessly hands me a towel. "it's like, if i did have those people it isn't like at my funeral they're gonna say 'he had a mole on his inner left thigh" or anything. they'll just know. it's not something you tell anyone else. there's just- there's this fear, you know, of like. uh, uhm..."

"ah," she says. "you're scared of not being known."

"nah, i know i'll be known. it's more a fear of not being- being intimately known. of, uh, being the one who knows myself better than anyone else."

she hums and hums and i'm not sure when it stops being her and when it starts being the fridge. finally she motions to the carrots and hands me a knife. an offering.

"right thigh?" she asks.

i grin and take the knife. this soup will be rich.

"left," i correct. "inner."

she's standing against my kitchen counter trying to dice celery with a vodka bottle sitting net to her when i tell her there's a mole on my left inner thigh. her giggles sound like bubbles and i'm basking in the suds. she asks me why i'm telling her this.

because, i say. you hear about the poetry with the couples who know every scar, every birth mark, every chipped tooth, and it's all exploration and sex and love. i don't wanna have that, don't wanna be explored like i'm uncharted land, like i'm something that needs to be memorized for fear of getting lost. but i want to be known. does that make sense? i ask. she doesn't answer and i keep going.

it's like, i splutter, it's such a small thing. it's something you don't tell anyone else. when i die they aren't gonna take the stand at my funeral and say "they had a mole on their inner left thigh" but i still want it to be known. i want to- i guess, if we really get down to it, i'm scared of not being known in a very certain way. i know i'll be known but i'm scared of not being known intimately. that everyone will know everyone in these very personal ways but when you think of me i'll just be the one friend. does that make sense? i ask.

it's such a small thing, i say again, but it's so scary, to not want a relationship and to not want sex, because it's not even the act or the relationship itself you're missing out on. it's that you're missing out on what comes with it. it's scary, i think, to know you're the one who really knows yourself. to be the one who knows yourself better than anyone else. i'm a lock and i'm the key, i'm the question and the answer, i'm a spoiler for i show i don't even watch.

and you're you. you're my friend and you're the closest to romance i'll ever get. i love you. i know one day you're going to have a partner and i will never fill that space that they're gonna fill. but it's you. in another life, if i weren't like this, you would be the one. you would have learned about my scars and about my moles without me having to tell you. and i just- i want you to know. i want someone i love to know.

does that make sense? i ask. she gathers pieces of celery the size of quarters and drops them in the crockpot.

"you're slurring," she says, smiling. "what did you just say?"

i take a sip of wine and when i look down at the glass it's nearly empty. she looks at me strangely.

"because," i decide. "you're you."

-

Our task is simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we can as to not stall their progress.

And goodness, do they make progress.

2.

He is the first to learn how the scraping of flint and steal can cause sparks to fly. I watch as he grows- he’s a curious one, this one. Many times I lead animals away from where he sits, always too distracted to notice. He has many names, for the grunts and murmurs  of vocal chords are still adjusting, and sound is something they are still trying to find the boundaries of. “Ma” seems to be his favorite. When he figures out how to turn sparks to fire I put myself between him and the flames to keep him from being burnt. They don’t leave marks in the same way they would him.

Everything is fast after that. Suddenly things can be cooked. Meat is much more edible than before. Suddenly water is safe to drink without the risk of disease. Suddenly warmth can be found in places other than the curves of another person. He hands it to everyone he knows and they take it with clumsy footing, no doubt leaving singed earth along their path. We will worry about it later; they learn quicker than anything we have seen in a long, long time.

-

They won’t stop growing. There are so many- we are in the millions but it is only a matter of time before they surpass even that. There are many other species that grow at similar paces. But none of them take so much time to mature. None of them have so much to learn- none of them have all that and more.

We were not built to worry. We do, however, wonder.

3.

They tell stories. Nothing has ever done this before.

Then again, I imagine nothing has ever been this lonely either.

I am assigned a boy named Jack. He is born on a ship, the moistness of wood replacing the soft of grass while the world moves beneath him. When night falls and the waves grow rocky everyone gathers in the middle of the deck, taking turns weaving tales under the stars. They discover religion. They discover us.

We have a name, now. Angels. We have never had a name before- nature never referred to us with anything close to that. It feels foreign against my tongue, yet it’s surprisingly fitting. We grow into our new labels.

Jack slips and nearly falls off deck, but I am there to keep him steady. His mother thanks me for my efforts. Calls it a blessing from the gods. I am no god, but I appreciate the sentiment. She tells him, “Be more careful next time. These waves will only grow more rough.”. She tells him, “The sea is no kind beast. She will balance us above the dangers below but she is not to be held responsible for anything- or anyone- who sinks further.”. She tells him, a bit teary up, “I may be the captain of this ship, but not even I could save you from waters like this.”

He learns how to stay standing when the wood beneath his feet refuses to still. We listen to stories together.

The children’s favorites are the ones told by his mother. She leans against a cane and speaks of adventures she has had, run ins with other pirates, loves she has cherished and betrayals she is still bitter from. Most of them, I’m sure, aren’t half true. Jack does not seem to mind.

Eventually she grows too old to run the ship. He takes her place, leaning against her- his- cane and telling tall tails of danger, run ins he has had with other men his age. Men who he had a fondness for and those expected better of. Most of them, I know, aren’t true in the slightest. The children do not seem to mind and the crew are not the type to ruin a good story.

He dies in his thirties after a particularly rough storm. As careful as he was, nature does not hold back or those who are weary. I keep the pressure off his lungs for as long as I can. I try to make every gulp of water taste sweet and calming. It takes everything in me to make his death peaceful.

But some people are simply not ready. He trashes till he can’t. Panic only clears when his vision darkens.

His body is never found. The crew mourn him like they mourned his mother. They keep the cane in their honor.

-

They won’t stop dying. They pass from the tiniest things, always so quick, always before we can do anything to help. Sometimes we can’t, even given the time. Sickness is everywhere now. People are dying in the streets. We can’t do anything to heal them. The best we can do is prolong the inevitable- that, however, is much too painful a death to seem like a blessing.

They call it the plague. They call it a punishment from god. Our names go from ‘angels’ to ‘demons’ very, very quickly.

We are only able to bless things that already exist. You cannot eat a cake when you have no ingredients. The doctors don’t know how to fix this- they are not yet advanced enough to deal with something this big. We can only sit and watch, horrified, as those we have been sworn to protect die by our feet. I am assigned more people than I can count. Their names become a blur. By the time it’s all over, humanity has changed. They have lost so many. We have lost so many.

For a while, each miracle leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

4.

The most stressful assignments, although also very amusing, are the ones who need to be protected from themselves.

His name has been passed down from generation to generation, yet he much prefers to go by Eric. I help him breathe through his corsets and let time pass faster when he’s forced into a face full of make-up. On the few occasions he steals pants from his brother’s room I make sure his footsteps are quiet, because such things are life or death in times like these.

His family is rich and he is tired. They throw parties of plenty, and I hold his tongue when he’s pressured into dancing with the other men there. He steps on their toes and I laugh. Eric is all too ready to rebel in ways that girls his age get disowned for. I let the small things through, smiling at his internal dialog, filled with sass and curses and things that would make his father turn purple. Nothing too big. Never what he really yearns for.

A boy lets go of his hand and gives a terse smile, excusing himself to the food table. We watch him limp away. Eric grins.

He dies young. With a tongue that sharp, it was to be expected. He is caught kissing a woman with undamaged shoes while they both are wearing pants. It was the only time I let him. Witches, they call them. I do my best to save them both, but it’s useless. Heels are not meant for running.

They are buried in unmarked graves. It’s the only blessing I can give.

-

They recover their numbers quickly. It seems no matter what, they always bounce back in a relatively short amount of time.  It’s amazing. It’s terrifying. We get assigned more than one person at a time.

5.

My first household is a family of three. It’s a mother, a daughter, and a child that’s somewhere in-between. Mostly I look over the children- their mother works from home and is much less prone to mistakes than them. And goodness, are they reckless. Their names are Rose and Julian. Rose is a night owl and I have to make sure on more than one occasion that she doesn’t spill mugs of hot coffee on herself. It’s a brutal task, especially when she refuses to sleep when she should. I urge her to drink colder drinks. She refuses.

She is stubbed toes and dropped papers, noise when it should be quiet. She is clumsy. A long, long time ago, this would have been a dangerous trait to have. But things have changed. This world was built by people like her. She will be okay.

Julian is young but they are not stupid. They know more about the ways of the body than any human I have watched over before, bookshelves filled to the brim with pages upon pages filled with the morbid details of what makes humans blood flesh and bone. They flap their hands when they’re frustrated and chew on whatever they can get their hands on. This world was not made for them. I hope it will be rebuilt by the time they’re old enough to live in it.

They are experiments gone wrong and the urge to learn more, even when it becomes less than safe. I bless their hands to stay uncut while experimenting on a dead frog, holding knives that are much too sharp for someone their age. I don’t stop their mom from waking up to scold them. I do make sure they get to keep the frog.

I grow more connected to these children than anyone else I have ever looked after. Jack would have liked them- he would have told them so many stories. I’m with them while they take their driver’s test, pressing their feet down with just enough pressure on the gas petal for smooth sailing. Rose refuses alcohol for the first time and I am there to make sure she doesn’t give into peer pressure. Julian studies for a medical degree, studies how to make this world better for people like them. They don’t need much help on their tests, but I’m still there to lead their pencil on particularly hard questions.

They move out but they stay connected. I watch them bring new people into their lives, watch as their create families of their own. Over the years they change, sometimes for better and sometimes for worse. But they are always kind. They are always Rose and Julian.

I’m not as foolish to say I forget how they died. However I don’t like to think about it, so that’s as close to forgetting as I’ll get.

They were good.

I was not built to miss people. Yet they still linger.

-

Our task was simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we could do as to not stall their progress.

There were many we could not save, and even those that we did were still doomed to the same end. Fate has it’s limits- you can only bend it so much. We were already testing it’s patience by simply existing. And that was fine. Death is normal, death is natural.

But these humans- these humans are different. They create and they are kind to a fault and there is nothing else like that. We did not expect to learn from them. We did not expect for this to hurt.

We did not expect to care.

5.

There’s a woman who lives to be 94. She is one of the lucky few to make it so far. She has grandchildren of plenty and their parents are happy. We all call her Nana. I watched over them for generations, the longest I have for any family before. In her last moments she prays. She tells me I did a good job.

Her grandson dies at age seventeen because I am busy helping his brother clean up glass. I do not pray- such things are better left to those who have faith. But I do hope she forgives me.

13.

I try my best to keep them safe. But this family, this family is not meant to last. There is always something wrong, always something broken, always something that needs to be blessed. It wears me out in ways I have not experienced for centuries. I can’t- I can’t help them all.

In the end there is only one left. She cannot bear to be alone.

No miracle can help someone who does not want to be helped.

21.

The sweetest boy I’ve ever protected is in a family full of rotten people. He is the best thing in that house. I give blessing after blessing, miracle after miracle, and he lives to be happy. He finds a husband and a wife- I bless them too. When he dies it’s a shock even to me. The world seems to dim. I protect his spouses and everyone else he cared about. It’s the first time I come dangerously close to grieving. He would not have liked that.

56.

While the family sleeps, their cat nuzzles into the couch and gives me a slow blink. I always end up sitting with it for the next hour. I cannot touch it, but it seems to appreciate my presence anyway. I miracle it mice to catch.

73.

They are sisters- there is nobody left but them. How reckless they are, spray cans routinely clanging against the cement while they take off from the police. They laugh while they run, and it would be sweet if it weren’t so dangerous. They get caught, once, because I feel they need to know just how serious this is.

The cop lets them off with a warning but also makes the one with darker skin lay on the floor while the other stands.

I do not let them get caught again.

When they pass I make sure their graffiti stays up, soon surrounded by many similar pieces by people like themselves. My next assigned family passes it on the way to the subway and I have to pause for a moment. I come very close to smiling. It would have made them happy.

?

We love them,

?

We grieve them,

?

We miss them.

-

We are angels. We are guardians of humans, protectors of families. We are the small miracles, the big blessings, and we play a balancing act with death just for them. Because they are growing and they are evolving. Because they love in ways we did not know were possible and they love us in ways that can only be described as ‘human’.

They have taught us so much. They have taught us to feel.

There is nothing we would not do for them. Challenging fate is just one of our many favors.

We are angels, and they are human. They are learning and so are we. Because of them we know love. We would not trade them for the world.

-

Our task is simple. Protect the humans. Let them grow. Do whatever we can as to not tall their progress.

And my goodness, do they grow.

But to our shock, so do we.

I'll think out poems and explanations and details but never be able to put them to paper, never be able to actually write them down. Instead they repeat in my mind 

over and over and over like a broken record. The doctor, the one who only exists in the midst of my writing, asks, "Why not write it all out? Maybe it'll make you feel better." But god, these demons have been shoved to the back of my closet for so long. It feels wrong, somehow, to polish them up for a poem I'll never reread. It'll make it more real, I think. Give enough time for the emotions to come back. Besides, I can't start without pausing every couple letters. I start crying much too easily. "Say them aloud, then," he says, always so helpful. "Tell someone." This, too, is not possible. I think of all the things I want to say and I find myself unable to leave out details. Details that haunt my memories and trace my every action. I imagine my mother asking me, "Did it hurt?" And I can't help but go on and on about the initial shock of it all, how it didn't feel real till my fingers were wet. The dad who cares, the one in my mind, asks, "Were you scared?" And I can't see myself leaving out the details of a will. The flashes of a video, the watching of the time, standing on wobbly knees and treading down stairs. I know things- things I wouldn't wish on anyone else. Grotesque things, traumatic things, things I'm sure would make others wince. So I rephrase and rewrite questions in my mind, letting myself play the part of both interviewer and interviewee, and the thoughts get a little less reckless. There are times where the numbness of my arm throbs, and I can't wear long sleeves without checking to see if I'm not bleeding every five seconds. Memories that feel distant but chaotic dance beneath my eyelids and seep into my vision as I grow distracted with what I'm doing. But I push on. This is my burden to bare- nobody else's. I'm holding a double-edged sword. Twirling the handle against my hands, trying to breath as it sticks out of my stomach. I pull, and there's a bit of relief, but I know that if I take it all the way out I will not be able to stop the gushing. It's only me here, and I don't think I'll be able to patch myself up again. So I smile, So I wince, So I watch as those around me grow used to the sword, and everything. is. fine. It has to be- bleeding out is not an experience I want to have. Not again. And it's so stupid, you see, because every so often someone'll bring it up. Casually. Playfully. Not at all in the ways my mind keeps replaying. It's the "You're scared of knives? You see the irony there, right?" The "Have you eaten today?" The "Hey, should I be scared of getting stitches?" Because everyone else has grown numb. They've grown used to this, used to me, used to the scars I think about all too often. It's a strange feeling, to have your mind still reel from things nobody else is shocked over. And when they are, it's your job to comfort them, till they grow as numb as the others. It's not their fault. Never has it been anyone's fault but mine. But it's strange. I wince from this sword and feel the blood begin it's weekly choking of my throat, but stare in surprise at those who laugh when I excuse myself to clean up. This is normal, and it's not. In my mind the doctor is quiet and I am crying, I am pleading, I am spilling. I try to shorten it and it comes out something like this; "I made a mistake when I was ten. We went to the hospital, I got stitches, and the next day everything was normal. But I haven't felt normal for a long time." It's kind of funny. Even that, I think, is too much. Because I've been staring at those words for the past minute, writing and rewriting them, trying to get it clean and polished for my screen. I don't think I'm doing a very good job. See, I just rewrote it. Just censored myself again. "Made a mistake"- Like I fell out of a tree, or broke a crown, or failed a test. Am I really being that vague? I guess so. I guess it is still in my best intentions to calm whoever I'm telling. To wait for it to numb. Strange, how habits shine through when you try to evade them. It is what it is. It's fine. I'll be fine. It's just a little hard to explain. A little hard to put into words. A little hard to see on a document. A little hard to balance repression and remembering. It'll be fine. I just need to get my words in a line.

Beside you there is a woman you have never seen before. Her hair is choppy against her neck and she wears a jean jacket that looks much too big for her. Her skin is dark. When she turns to you her eyes are glowing a bright white and her smile is all teeth with little sincerity.

"Come," she says, "Walk with me."

You are none the wiser.

The pooling of a thousand different universes is cool against your legs. You ask, "Who are you?"

The woman hums a tune nobody knows. "I am Creation," she decides. "and I am the parent of life. I craft souls from my hands and balance stars between my fingers. I am the feeling after finishing a long project and the determination to do more. Artists draw my many forms and set them to be framed in museums of plenty. I am in the earth beneath your feet, the flowers in your hair, the sun that kisses your skin. I am the face of all those who walk my path of life and more."

You blink. Her hair is long now, and her skin is lighter than before. She's wearing a dress. It's ripped at the sleeves.

A pause that is anything but silent fills the space between you. Creation gives you a look and frowns. "It is only polite for me to ask who you are, is it not?"

The world is up to your knees now. If you put your hands by your sides, you're sure your fingertips would leave ripples in the infinite. "I'm not sure," you say, and you are honest. "I don't think I have been myself in a long time."

Creation is thoughtful for a moment. "I see." she says, finally. "Would you like to find out?"

Blink. His hair is shaved and he is tall. Camouflage somewhere it cannot blend into.

"What?"

He stops walking and turns to you. You cannot see anything lower than your own waist. Creation holds out his arm and gives you a smile most would consider charming. It seems empty, to you.

"Do you trust me?"

You do not. But your body of moving on it's own accord, and suddenly, you find yourself taking his outstretched hand. His grip is tighter than you would prefer. Somehow, his eyes shine brighter.

"Good choice," he mutters, and it sounds dangerously close to a joke. He takes a deep breath- was he always breathing?- and he pulls you down hard enough that you're sure your arm is dislocated, but it doesn't hurt, why doesn't it hurt, has anything hurt since you di-

you are underwater. his hand is gone. or is it? you aren't sure where the warmth is coming from anymore. you try to breathe and find yourself choking on galaxies that swirl in your mouth, a feeling so foreign that it makes your stomach flip-flop. you are surrounded by unfathomable realities, infinite timelines. and yet you feel so big among them.

And just as suddenly, you are breaking the surface.

Your chest shakes and you are desperately pushing hair from your face. Someone pats your back as you cough up things you cannot comprehend. You blink away the excess. A face stares back, looking almost sheepish.

"Sorry," they say, sounding almost sheepish with their hair half-shaved half-short, "It was rude to not give you a proper warning."

It is bright now, you realize. The empty space surrounding you is now a shining white, making it look more empty than before. Their eyes are as dark as the galaxies swirling in your stomach.

"Who are you?"

They grin in a way that reminds you of a child. "I am Destruction," they proclaim, bold, "I am the rage you feel as you tear apart the things you were once proud of. I am the fire as it burns through a forest. I am in the eyes of people who hold names we do not speak of, people who have done things we cannot comprehend, people who have and never will be an ounce of light illuminating their name. I am the dark and I am the gray and nothing less."

He is small, half your height. The world shifts so that he does not drown. Shouldering off a leather jacket that pools at his feet, he hands it to you and smiles. "And you," he continues, "are cold."

He's right. The clacking of your teeth is enough to make you wince. You take the jacket.

"Thank you."

"No need," he says, waving a hand. His eyebrows raise as he looks you up and down. After a moment, he holds out his hand, familiar and threatening. "Give my your name."

It's not a question.

They are your height now. Chubby with eyes that are more squinted than before. Your jacket does not change.

"What?" You ask, stumbling a few steps back. "Is this a trick of the fae?"

They laugh and smile in a way that is not meant to give you comfort. "Surely, my friend, you know better than to question those who crafted the worlds you lay upon." It's quiet for a moment in the loudest way possible. Hesitantly, you give them your name.

They hum a tune only you know. Their eyes are darker than before.

"Lay with me," they say. They are lean and slouched.

You are no fool.

You float with Destruction, hands intertwined and the rippling of the world pulling you in a thousand different directions. You aren't sure how long it has been before they start speaking.

"You're.... young," they start. It sounds like a lie. It feels like the truth. "You are young and you are determined. To do what, I'm not sure. Only you know- I suppose the creator can only know so much about what grows beneath their hands. You are a daughter, a son, a child. A brother, a sister, a sibling. Somewhere between the lines of all three. You are loved in the most quiet way and in the loudest screams. You  yourself love in a very similar way, I imagine.

"I see you in the hands of all those I have made. You are engraved in the palms of all those around you and the swirl of your fingertip is indented on the bodies of all those you touch. I find you under the dotted i's of an assignment written long ago, in the brush strokes an art project forgotten, between the lyrics of a song sung by those who want to taste your spirit. You are everywhere, and you are nowhere. You are memorized and you are forgotten. You are love and you are hate.

"You are everything," she finishes, braids floating around her head like the sun.

"And nothing?"

"No," she whispers, and it sounds like a promise. Her hand grips yours harder. "Never nothing. Not you."

Her jacket is comfortingly warm as you pick at the sleeve. She hums and sighs.

"I could not let you leave without knowing who you are." She says, and it sounds almost sad. "It would have been cruel of me."

You swallow. "Where will I go?" You ask, and though you have been warned against it you do not feel afraid. Not of Deconstruction. Not of Creation. "Will it hurt?"

"I don't know," she says, and you are no longer floating. You are standing hand in hand, seeming to be dangerously close to the end. "There may be nothing. There may be something so raw you cannot comprehend it. But now is not the time for questions- instead you will find the answer, for this is only the beginning."

"It feels like the end," you say, blinking back tears.

A face that was once yours blinks back. "I know," they say, and though it is strange, the light gray of their eyes is almost fitting. They hold out a hand, a mirror of yourself.

"Do you trust me?"

You do. But you are no fool.

You take a hand that is no longer yours. They smile at you, almost comforting,

The first and only time I was caught, when my skeletons fell from my closet, they only fell because I needed a ride to the hospital. And when we got home it was so terribly quiet that I was so sure that the rattling of my bones would no longer be mistaken for the air-conditioner's murmurs, or the sobs behind my closed first would click as not being the whistles in the wind- so sure that that I felt the urge to fall into myself with the relief of a thousand pounds of dirt being lifted from my grave. But my mother simply looked at my closet, saw the spillage, and helped me stack them back in. Nice and neat, like her mother used to teach her. I was not seen as a danger to myself then- let alone an immediate one. So how can I stand here before this doctor, tapping lyrics to songs that stay in my head into the wood of this chair, and tell him that I am somehow more dangerous to myself than I was back then, not yet a teenager and experiencing for the first time what it looks like to see skin peel back and reveal the fat underneath? How do I stand before this doctor, the man who I am paying to ask me questions I have been asked a hundred times before by different faces and different voices, and tell him, 

"Yes. I am in danger, I am dying, and I'm not sure the promise of tomorrow is satisfying my curious urge to die. Please, help me."

Because I have been there. I've lived through nights where my chest felt like a black hole, sucking all the hopes and dreams I had been taught to have by people who were too uncomfortable to see me without, and I've lived through days where my heart felt less like a heart and more like a water balloon about to burst, about to drench my soul and all who dared come close enough, and every time, I had thought, 

"This is it. I can't go on anymore."

Except I did. Again and again and again, I did. I got through the nights that felt impossible and landed myself here, sitting in the office of a man who promises to help, and trying to distinguish what the meaning of danger is. Am I in danger? Maybe. Maybe not. It's a tricky one, you see, because when you become used to the swirling smoke of lightning and rain that your brain is pelting, you can no longer tell when the storm is bad. It all becomes muddy. The black mixes with the white and becomes shade after shade of gray that I can not distinguish, a meshed rainbow of emotions that I have stared at for so long I've become colorblind. I do not remember what it means to be alright. The opposite is much the same. So I ask the doctor, 

"What does that mean?" 

because a question is often times easier than an answer. The doctor tilts his head.

"Well, do you want to die?"

What does it mean to want? My mental health is a scale of one to ten, as my friend once said, and I seem to be permanently stuck on seven. But seven feels so high, and I have felt this way for so long, so I tell myself I'm more of a three. A voice in the back of my head whispers, 

"It's foolish to climb up a latter when you ignore where it ends."

I block it out. I've never feared death. In fact, I've craved it since I was young. So when does craving become want? When does an apathy for dying become the want to die? I had a dream, once, that I smoked a cigarette, something I have been warned against by nearly everyone in my family. The burning in the back of my throat, the fire flickering in my stomach, were all so clear and so tempting that when I woke up I had a craving to smoke. I have never acted on it. Can you be addicted to something you have never tried, but crave? Am I an addict? Suicidal ideation. The fluctuating passive want to die. Like not being hungry, but eating anyways. My relationship with suicide is a shrug and a nod at the same time. When you know enough victims, you become numb to the thought of becoming one. Tempted, even. It's not a hard pit to fall in. My grandma makes me promise never to do what I have done behind locked doors again. As if I have not lied before, as if a broken promise is against my morals to the point of refusal, as if I can control my own emotions. It's not her asking me not to do it again. Not really. It's her wanting to be comforted. It's her not wanting to worry. It's her wanting to live her life in peace. I wanted to be comforted once. I don't think it's my place to ask anymore. So I promised. And we never talked about it again. If I am to deny myself from feeling what I feel like my grandmother asks, then how does this doctor, the one who is humming to the beat of the ticking clock, expect me to know when I am in danger? I want to tell the doctor, 

"I don't know. But the other night I was cutting meat for dinner, and the butchers knife glinted against the light in a way that made me pause. For a good five minutes, I stood there, looking from the knife to my arm, the one that is still numb to the touch, and thinking. Thinking about things I can't repeat and things I don't have the words for. Thinking about promises I've made and how far away the nearest hospital is. I ended up throwing out the meat and making mac and cheese instead, and I've worn long sleeves ever sense. The knife is at the bottom of a drawer I never use. What does that mean? What does this say about me? Is this what danger feels like? Is danger in my drawer? A man who jumped from the golden gate bridge said he regretted it as soon as he jumped. Was I about to loose my footing? Doctor, I ask, where were my alarm bells? The red flags, the fire, the flashing of my life before my eyes? The adrenaline, the sweat, the fear? Where were they, doctor? Do I need to repair my defenses? Did I have any to begin with?"

But this is only the first session. And there are ten minutes left on the clock. If that, if this, is danger, then I don't think it would be wise to bring it up now. Not so soon. So I shrug, and I joke,

And I say, "I'm in school- I think we all want to die, sometimes."

The doctor blinks. He does not say anything for a long while, and my tapping has quickened to match the beating of my heart, But slowly, the doctor nods, and cracks a smile I'm sure he has given out to a million before me. Cold and comforting, like my hands against a cup of milk. It isn't pleasant. So the doctor sends me away, and when I get into my car, my hands hover above the steering wheel. I'm suddenly acutely aware that I am shaking. How long have they been doing that? Is this my fire alarm? I force my hands down on the hard leather and they sweat beneath my palms. Cold. Clammy. My eyes are burning. Is this a warning? I look at the street and think. My house is five minutes away. Traffic hour is over. Why am I so anxious? Something in the back of my mind whispers through a choked-up throat,

"If a car comes our way, we aren't going to move."

I bite my lip. Is this my red flag? Maybe. But home is so close. And I am so tired, so the red looks more like brown. More like gray. More like a checkered flag at the start of a race. I have driven this car a million times, and gotten through a dozen times more days like these. This has happened before. And I've been fine. So why would I not be this time? Is there a danger in not knowing what danger is? In not knowing what immediate implies? Are these my signs of danger? I don't know.

“We get into high-school and pass with relatively good grades. We run to Michigan and leave everything behind so we can smoke it up and get high in a nice little apartment we’ll share. You study to become a teacher and I’ll have babies for people who can’t have babies themselves. Your siblings can come visit and I’ll fight over the phone with my parents. Cookies and cream ice cream will be essential to our fridge.”

“Even though it’ll make you shit for days?”

“It’ll be perfect.” She set our creation on the cooling rack and looked at me for input. I shrugged and smiled.  

“Can we get a cat?”

All she did was grin and add her final touches. “It’s a plan, then.”

“It’s a plan.”

And it was. But plans change. And over the years I came to the conclusion that keeping a plan,

a hope,

a promise,

a future,

with a dead girl was not the best for my mental health.  

So I bought some new clay,  

put our once-perfect plan in the corner,  

and came up with something new.  

I built a future with a girl and a tension that broke at least once a week and got easier to deal with the longer we continued our cycle. She took the clay into her hands and almost hesitantly massaged it in her palms.

“Here’s our plan,” she said, smooth.  

“You become a teacher. I become a therapist. We live past twenty-five and you get more friends. You get happy and leave all of whatever is left behind. We’re okay. We’ll be alright and maybe we’ll hang out at the same collage. I’ll get honor roles and you’ll probably fail again to be honest.”

We were quiet for a moment.  

And I thought of her toxic words, her hurtful names she called me in the dark. I thought of every time she told me I was going to hell and all the times she played the victim so I could not mourn. I thought of how loving she could be, and just how fun she was when the tension softened.  

For a quiet moment, I wondered if I even wanted this.  

Stop, something screamed. Not again.

So instead I gave her a weary smile and nodded. “It’s a plan, then?”

And she shrugged. “It’s a plan.”

But plans change.  

And toxic friends turn to poison much too quickly behind closed doors.  

So I sit here,

alone in my clay-room,  

and I look around at all my creations.  

Futures that fell through and pots that have long since been smashed, clay that refuses to dry no matter how long I wait, hopes and dreams that will never reach reality.  

I look at the still-wrapped clay that sits in front of me.  

Gray and unused.  

I don’t even know where to start. I built a future with a dead girl and a girl who’s words leaked poison. I have built futures around others so much that I’m not sure of what exactly I want to make on my own.  

My fingers flex beneath my crossed arms and I am reminded, painfully, of just how much the texture of clay and dust makes me spiral into a meltdown.

If I touch this clay, I think to myself, I will not be able to finish before I scream.  

The clock ticks.  

Time passes.  

Something gritty rises in my throat and my heart beats faster. Determination curles in my stomach as I stand.  

I give the clay one last look-over. It stares back threateningly.  

I remember looking into your eyes and seeing us as pirates,

as the princess and her frog,

as the president and vice,

as partners in crime.

It never mattered where our roads would lead us on our journey through life.

As long as we were together, the world would tremble beneath our feet and beat in tandem with our breathing.

Old best friend,

I think of us and what we once were and I have the bravery to take on the world.

Memories surface of what we were and what we could have been and I can’t help but feel as though there is something more waiting for me. For us.

But my confidence is worn, my love.

It is faded and dusty and I am acutely aware of just how old I am without you.

How we had not been too young, not really, but my youth came back to me every time you laughed and promised me a life beyond a town that was not prepared to nurture our bountiful spirits.

And how when you left, my age seeped back into my life and tinted everything gray.

To the one who I once shared half a heart necklace with,

I look you in the eyes and I do not see adventure. Not anymore.

I see a galaxy of memories and moments stuck in time.

A universe filled with pain and laughter and love.

I see a past that I will never be able to forget,

And a future I have no chances of grasping.

I see what once was and what will never be,

A cut-knot in a spool of yarn I had been working on untangling.

For the person I am sure to have spent a future with in a different life,

I hope that you have someone who can see what I once did in your eyes,

And I hope that whatever you see in mine,

it is enough for you to wish the same.

In spite of what the one who I used to share an earbud with on slow lunch periods may think,

I am sorry.

I am sorry for how I treated you in moments of cowardice and I am sorry for the words that would have been better said than not.

I am sorry for the small and the big,

the hurtful and the annoying,

the chapters in our book that were awkward to write and even more so to reread.

I am not and never will be sorry for how our story ended,

But I am sorry for the ugly in between our pages of beauty that would have been better left in the rough drafts.

I know you cannot say the same.

But I am sorry.

To be read by the one who I once proposed to with a cherry-flavored ring pop,

I find myself being so incredibly bored without you.

You were a wildfire,

toxic and deconstruction towards everything in your path.

And now I will have to settle for a garden.

It is not a bad trade. Far from it, really.

But sometimes I’ll look down at the lighter in my hand and have the sudden urge to set everything aflame just to be able to feel some sort of high like I once did with you.

I now take my hits in fits of laughter and talks of dreams.

It’s different for sure. But I’ll manage. I hope that you have a garden of your own and that the ground on which you stand on flourishes with every step you take.

I am learning to see the beauty in the petal of a rose instead of the deconstruction of flames, an I hope you can do the same.

Addressed to the person who held my hand like I was the only thing keeping you from floating away,

I see you in the smallest things now.

My sister and I were shuffling through our playlist and a song came on from the soundtrack of a movie that you were absolutely obsessed with,

the movie that started many a conversation between us,

and I had to ask her to turn it off before my emotions twisted more tangled in my chest.

When I slip on my shoes I think of the hours I spent over my kitchen sink,

scrubbing away ink that you had written on the edges,

quotes that used to make me smile and now make me feel things I can’t describe.

I see your reflection in the acrylic of my keychain,

I hear your voice in the music of the games I play,

and I feel your touch against the fur of my stuffed animals.

You will stay with me till the end of time,

in mind and in heart,

and I can’t find it in me to object.

I wonder where you find me.

In truth, old friend who once held my world in your hands,

You were not as great as I am making you out to be.

You said things that I have declared myself unable to repeat,

told me lies and left wounds in my back that I have had to hide with blood-stained bandages that you would not apply,

and all in all, you were not the angel that I like to write you as.

Sometimes I cannot sleep, left thinking of the things you have called me,

and I am still picking out the strings of manipulation from my clothing that you left behind.

From what I have found on the sweaters of back-handed truths you gave me,

I have a feeling I’ll have to begin sewing my own clothes.

But this is not about you.

This is about me.

And maybe, if I hold off the bad that you brought,

if I choose to ignore the seeds of hate you planted in the garden of my future,

then my healing will be easier.

You were not fair, old best friend.

But I’ve found little that is,

so it would be simply hypocritical to call you out on it.

So to the one who left me with a hundred things that are shoved to the back of my closet for when I have healed,

I wish you the best.

I hope the person who takes the place I once filled makes you happy.

I hope they make you smile with your teeth,

I hope they say things that make you ponder in the middle of the night, smiling,

and I hope that overall, they make you happy.

Do not worry about me, old best friend.

For I will be sitting here in my corner gluing pieces of my life that you shattered back together,

and hopefully, it will be made into something more beautiful than before,

even if you are missing.

I know you have made it clear that you do not care,

but if you do,

I hope this eases your anxiety.

Because above all else,

I choose to find peace within myself.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to forgive you for all you have done and all the ‘sorries’ you left unwritten. I’m more so against the thought of forgetting.

But I forgive myself. And maybe that’s all I need right now.