the only piece of furniture in my bedroom is a tall, queen-sized bed, a gift from a man who taps his long fingers across linoleum and black fabric, thinking about death and how to stop it.

the only clock in this house doesn’t run, and I see the cemetery through my windows.

walking past the stones each morning, a chord rushes itself into my thoughts, one syllable:

O Fortuna O Fortune

velut luna as the moon

statu variabilis, stays changing,

semper crescis ever waxing

aut decrescis ever waning

among the images on the wall alongside my bed, a self-portrait– a girl who died in a bathroom in venice. i remember: the bruises on her arms.

you would think, with all this, you would think i was a sad girl.

on the verge of fainting on the train ride home, an hour of sleep in a chair after a night of strange airwaves, I feel and look like hell.

but honestly? honestly, these days i am feeling full to bursting with the fact that i’m alive. yes. yes.