Apart

You know it's just sleeplessness; you know it's hormones and sunstroke and circumstance. But you stand over the kitchen sink with salt water pouring over dirty dishes, working quick to escape the public space before roommates come home and see your dissolving defenses. See it written that not all things broken can be fixed.

I sat in the shower later, on dirty porcelain stained with years of neglect, what pathetic irony. My skin still beats warm with summer sun, the cherry trees are in bloom but when you look at the world it is from a void, from space, from the sunken place and you can't tell how far away it is.

Everything you touch turns to rot.