Alyson

I am dying here. If I was speaking to a stranger, I would say “decomposing.” “Dying” still breaks the flatlining expectation of simple goodness in the minds of people here, even though these are the same thing.

I wasn’t crying wolf, last year, when I wanted to go away to another school, but mostly another place. I didn’t know that junior year here would have been OK. I feel as though I woke up as the wolf one day, and that makes it hard to stick around when no one wants to understand you.

I don’t learn. I tire myself wringing out every person I know for something new. At least I have muscles.

These are my days, and it is a surgery to have them removed from my control. ♦