"And I remember that sometimes these nerves would even lose their shell and become defenseless, a skinny flower-shaped horizon with the rays stolen off its sun, and that's why sober alcoholics' arms often shake, because they've lost that control. And now they're floundering, stuck in pasts remembered and futures imagined, without the ability to ever stop their hands."

Sometimes nerve endings fail; so that when she shakes, it isn't from the tremblings of age or pain, but from the restlessness hiding in her bones, spindle-roots weaving through every minute hole to clutch at her veins, now tucked under wilted skin that shines purple and blue and white. Her clothes don't hang very well, never fitting, and on bad days her skin is a winter coat, dirtied-ivory wool wound around itself, fibers spinning and knotting together just trying to relieve the pressure.

She often finds herself in trouble. The water rises up too hot. It brushes against her, making her skin a bit too warm, a bit too pink.  She knows they will smell it on her, this shame, because she lives in a world of wolves in sheep's clothing—of fur and blood and instinct. She knows that she will someday live to watch all that she loves die, and she knows that she too will someday die. She cries only for the former because she secretly yearns for death, even as she knows if she ever uttered this truth she would be rebuked and shamed because this is a world of hard work, they will tell  her, this is a world of beauty, so why don't you just stop being so selfish.

She picks apart a muffin as if it is an artifact from some ancient time, losing herself in its crater-dimples, tracing the ridges of siding before she pulls them apart, suddenly thrust into the world of playing god, tonguing over small remnants of paper-wrapper here and there and eating them anyway, mouthing over them softly, trying to taste earthly salvation, but she tastes nothing, and so she is lost; still lost.

When they welcome her to the words, they hold her close and stroke her hair and appease her with two-dollar words and dulcet, meaningless tones to the tune of It will be alright. So she writes in the darkness of night, hiding away in safety, racing against the passage of time. The cover of dusk is all that she knows now, and as she presses each key stroke down, listening to the click, click, click of her typewriter, she imagines him there as she remembers him—cold and beautiful and untouchable, all sharp edges and shadows and loss.

Coming together again for her is like coming home, like stepping back under the water after her skin has become chilled and spotted with goosebumps, like coming in out of the rain to a warm blanket and a warm bed where her wet hair can soak through the pillow and he won't mind—only laugh and mutter teases he could string together with admirable intent.

She is afraid of the world at large, so she hides inside of the world she knows; the tiny sphere she keeps tucked behind her ear, or clutches tightly in her aching palm when she feels weak, when she feels the words coming Are you even listening to me? I just can't do this. Her pulse slows, and its sluggish beat in her head drives her to near-madness in the night, keeps her awake, reminding her that she is alive (but better off dead), and when his hand finds hers, it is like gravity—pulling her out of the foggy, late-night train of thoughts that will inevitably lead her to turn inside herself and pull everything apart.

When she writes, she promises it will not be about him. She is an army of one, even while she lets him love her, and she swears to herself that she will make this about  the strength of womanhood, the beauty of life, not the trials of love that pollute the world. She is a liar, because love is a beautiful thing, and she knows this. She knows that while she is a soldier, feigning apathy, she loves—even as it weakens her.

Sometimes when she tries to solve this riddle, this inconsistency, she drives herself to tears, so that she has to stop and calm and breathe life in, let it fill her lungs and bring her home again. When she opens her eyes, the world spins, forcing her to close them again and when they do, it is like being welcomed home, into the darkness of nothingness—the void where all is loved and nothing is feared.

And when he threads his fingers with hers, she watches them weave together with disconnected fascination, admiring the long, bony protrusions—calloused skin stretched tight over bone, warm to the touch; compares them to her own small, soft hands. She opens her eyes, takes in the sight of his worried eyes, and realizes that maybe the insanity, the kaleidoscope of colors as the world moves on without her...

will always be better than the darkness.