31

Today, I saw videos where friends stood of bullet-riddled crowds and lifeless bodies. I saw a photo of a man in a wheelchair who couldn’t run away. 

6am. I sat in the shower and cried.

I put words to the wordless for work. I waited on texts and shoved back tears on phone calls, because there’s too much riding on how we respond. What is there to say that hasn’t already been poured out into the world for too long?

Today, Tom Petty’s heart stopped beating.

I pictured driving up the 101 with the windows down, listening to You & Me. Thinking we could just live forever and it would be alright. 

I’m mostly alright. 

Still some kind of alright.

Today, I video called my mom. She answered on the 13th ring. It’s my 31st birthday, and everything feels backwards.

She was crying when she answered, and the curtains were pulled. All she could do was point to the TV and tell me, “I don’t want to.” I know what that means, I’ve heard it before. She doesn’t want to live in a world like this, in a body that’s a cage.

Today, some friends came over and we hugged my dog and drank wine from the bottle. On the floor of my apartment where I still haven’t bought a lamp. 

And may never buy a lamp. Because the lamp isn’t what matters anymore.

10pm. I sat in the bath tub and cried.