I feel fragile sick like I’ve been left out on the line to dry for too long. I feel limb listless and unforgiven, long road bound and sleep deprived, half alive and hungry for honey on my lips. The bones in my chest feel made of styrofoam, like I could press thumbprints into them that would last a lifetime. The walls are too thin and I can hear the bass bleed from the neighbors and it wanders over our dirty sheets and makes its way near the closed windows, covered in plastic and waiting for the season to change. I want to tell you about things I have never told anyone. Lately, memories creep up and I can’t assign them to a certain self I know, I don’t know who did those things anymore. And I’ve been writing stories about people who dig up bones and thinking a lot about my own. I can feel the sickness creeping through my sinuses and this warm weather feels like a trick against the slow crawl inside me.