I’m just having an allergic reaction to the universe.

And it’s like your friends don’t know what to say to you, because it wouldn’t matter even if they did know what to say. Instead they grab your hand and remind you they love you. And your eyes are swollen so you can’t see, but it’s okay because the tears would block your vision even if the swelling didn’t. And your walls are empty because they’re missing pictures, because you know it’s like a bandaid. Rip it off quick, tear all the pictures down; it hurts less the faster you do it. And you’re so tired, but it doesn’t matter how you lay in bed because you won’t fall asleep anyway. But I guess this isn’t the kind of tired that sleep takes away. And you begin to think your eyes are so used to being wet that they might never dry again. And your throat constricts so that it feels like no air will reach your lungs, like you fell off a trampoline and all the wind got knocked out of you. And it hurts so much that your heart gets all twisted until it doesn’t even look like yours anymore. And you want to be exhausted so your mind will be too, but your head tells you, “No, I think I’d like you to think about what you’ve done.” And no place feels like home because you made your home with that person, and now they’re gone.

And the words come out of your fingers so slow, because if you never finish writing, maybe it isn’t finished.