Two defining traits wound themselves tightly across every drop of rain that formed a day. Some days bright, others dark. Fingers point to circumstance, DNA, chemicals. Every breakdown, a new finger to point. Therapy over USB, connecting trauma from you to me. An ear that hears too much, preventing what I need to be. Scraping knives against each strand of rope, disconnecting the dead weight. I feel selfish, gas-lit and confused. I’m trying to ring back in this tougher version of myself, dredged with water scum and cold. Sometimes it’s hunger scares me and feels uncontrollable. I connect to stars and stereotypes to help satiate the confusion, but often it only gets worse. I hope to get past this, I know I’m doing better and every day is a right step towards something that feels unobtainable. I’ve already stopped counting the days since my first injection, a scary but real aware feeling. Pill habits are reduced to simple plastic week containers. Brittle memories and iron-clad fixations may not be so bad after all….