Lately I am guilty of losing the little things:
pens, papers, knees and wrists. My to-do lists
are shorter, and I can’t stop thinking of the month I spent
alone in my mother’s apartment. Fifteen, and I am
frying eggs, one foot propped against my thigh,
watching the yolk harden until it’s inedible. Sipping 
terrible wine and thinking: this is growing. This is fine.
Fifteen. Fifteen unread texts that all sound the same:
“stop being such a bitch.” 
“don’t ignore me.”
“im sorry babygirl.” “i’m sorry.”
And humans are a race of a thousand apologies, a 
thousand names for our shame. 
Fifteen. I chop apples and put them in my glass
and pray for sweetness, for something more
than nights laying on my floor, drunk, forehead to the 
carpet, missing my mother and hating myself. Waiting
for the grand exit, stage lights so bright
they turn my skin gold. Wishing I knew how to hurt
without shame, how to hurt
with grace.

Lately I am guilty of feeling like this again.
Lately I am guilty of thinking there is an end.