“Hi,” I mouth, giving him a nod, knowing I should pull away and go back home and write. I’m no longer sure why I came here; my old tactics haven’t worked for over a year. Other peoples’ bodies are not my safe, exchangeable shells anymore. It isn’t too late to make a healthy choice, to head home without hurting myself, to pour meandering rubbish into my smallest journal, the one labelled with an F that I can’t admit stands for Feelings. Yes. That sounds wonderful—or maybe it sounds like weakness. Like I don’t want to test my battered boundaries again, because I’m afraid of the fallout.
