I. I listen to Teen Suicide and “Bull in the Heather” on repeat, whether I am walking the dogs or staring out of my window, crying, hoping the release of my tears will somehow soothe the aching in my chest. “Cherub Rock” reminds me of the Pisces. I blanket myself in songs that call him to mind even though I know how dangerous that is. Music has always provided me with solace; now it’s making me more confused than ever. Attaching songs to people is dangerous, I realize, and yet I still do it. I never learn. My mother used to tell me that. “You never learn, Britney,” she’d say disapprovingly. She was right, in a sense.
II. My anxiety levels have gone down. I do not have panic attacks. I do not shake on public transit and dissociate on the way to school. Yet I worry about the future, about things not working out the way I want them to, so much that it’s consumed me. I wear a coat of apprehension throughout everything. People tell me to focus on myself and I can’t. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
III. I’ve morphed so much in the space of a few months—internally and externally—that it’s incredible. I can’t even begin to sum it all up here but I wish I could because there have been so many significant changes. I never thought that I’d be at this point. I never thought that any of this would happen to me. “It’s like we’re in a movie,” the Pisces said when he came over.
IV. The Pisces tells me to look at him. Our staring contests have become a quick ritual. His eyes change from green to the color of the ocean. He tells me that my eyes are black. It would be best if I stopped thinking about him.
V. I’ve become less relatable. I don’t know how that makes me feel.
VI. I am my own hell. ♦