cramped and empty. My bones ached, but nothing could compare to the undeniable sensation of grief that I still had. I left the hospital aware of every little thing.The precious plants that grew outside the hospital doors. The splintered wood on the doorpost. The scratch on the right bottom side of our car. I noticed how odd it was that I was alive. The feeling of life overwhelmed me. I noticed the look of anguish on my mothers face. The way her wrinkles seemed more evident, and the way her brows furrowed up together when she looked at me. I noticed how suicide was a permenant solution to something so temporary. I see the way I’m changing. I recognize the way depression and I occasionally bump into one another. How we say our hello’s and quickly withdraw from old habits. I see the way anxiety and I shake hands, but my fingers don’t end up trembling. Insomnia and I, romantic partners that come to a solemn agreement each night. I see the way my medication beams with joy when I take it. I see the way emotions don’t control how I view the world, but I do. I see the way that my heart is being glued together piece by piece. I see the way my four walls look at me, and how they smile because they echo now more often with the sound of my laughter than with my sobs.
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