Divots in my eyes fill up with tears, not the sad kind, the air kind, air being blown down on me from the ceiling fan. I want to blink but don't, I let myself cry, let the small pains on me get washed over. And when the flood is come and gone I get up.
They feel crosshatched but the mirror says no, the mirror says I'm making it up. I feel crosshatched all over, worn and torn and lived in, like somebody checked me out and ran me ragged. I've been feeling that way a lot lately. That what I'm doing is someone else, nothing is my own but the outside, I'm a vessel. No, vessel's too good. I'm a shell.
I get back in bed. I look up. There are no tiles to count, no images painted or wallpapered on. Faintly I see the outlines of stars, and I know come sunset they will glow. So I keep looking, and I cry, and wait.
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