moments

You just turned twenty three and you’re standing alone in your kitchen having not said a word to another human in several hours, you’re waiting for your brita to fill with water as you realize the floor beneath you needs to be swept, you have spent the last few moments of your life deciding not to kill yourself despite having had the urge since you turned fourteen, and you begin to think about the wine you have in your fridge and if you should ever open it, because if you do you have to finish it in two days or you have wasted the bottle, then the laundry you told yourself you would do tomorrow which is today, but now tomorrow, and the letter you never sent to your relative even though you told them you would, and how you found yourself a therapist because your mother never did even having asked for many years, and how the skin touching the floor somehow doesn’t feel like yours anymore, you think about how you should call someone when you start to feel like this, the number in your phone you would go to, how someone in the world right now knows every intimate detail about your life yet you don’t speak to anymore, all the times you’ve silently cried on a floor, or on the subway, or staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror, reciting paragraphs of all the things you would say if given the chance but never do when that chance comes, you feel overwhelmed by shame, for feeling the way you feel, and within those small moments you begin to feel trapped by nostalgia, remembering you’ll never be this young again, and recognizing also this is the first time you’ve ever been this old, and still don’t know how to change your own tire if the day ever comes, that somehow every choice you’ve made led you to standing in your kitchen on this dirty floor, and you look out the window at the apartments across from you, knowing there should be moments where you fall in love with the world, but the paper cut between your index finger burns, and you can’t quite remember why you first wanted to, but decide this is your body, and someday you will chose how to kill it, that sixteen year old you will be proud when you do, but that right now you have no where else to be except here, and for the first time in your life you will believe in fate, and that fate has led you through every mistake, and every trauma, and brought you here, to this kitchen, waiting for the world to stop spinning so you can feel sane again.