There Is, In The End, The Letting

...someone Speaks In Soft Tones To Me And Says I Am Psychotic, But It's Going To Be All Right. I Put On My Hat, Unperturbed, And Ask For Some Crayons.

I Developed A Deep, Abiding Fear Of Jeans, Which I Still Have. I Hold My Breath And Shut My Eyes When I Pull On A Pair In The Dressing Room, Afraid They Will Now, As Then, Get Stuck At My Hips And There I Will Stand, Absurd, Staring At The Excess Of Hips That Should, If I Were A Good Person, Be „slim“.

In Our Absence, The Violet Early Evening Light Pours In The Bay Window, Filling The Still Room Like Water Poured Into A Glass. The Glass Is Delicate. The Thin, Tight Surface Of The Liquid Light Trembles. But It Does Not Break. Time Does Not Pass. Not Yet.

I Mean, We All Know The Dangers Of Starving, But Bulimia? That Can't Be That Bad. It's Only Bad When You Get Really Thin. Who Worries About Bulimics? They're Just Gross.

I Had A Love Affair With Books, With Characters And Their Words. Books Kept Me Company. When The Voices Of The Book Faded, As With The Last Long Chord Of A Record, The Back Cover Crinkling Closed, I Could Swear I Heard A Door Click Shut.