Starve

by A.J. Merlin

“No one is looking at you,” I tell myself, repeating the words my therapist had told me so many times. “You’re not that important. They’re living their lives, just like you’re living yours,

Which would be more than a little traumatizing, given my current proximity to a full-blown panic attack caused by overstimulation and poor life choices.

I can barely handle my mom on the best of days.

Same

“It’s, umm…it’s fine.” Fuck, it’s really not fine.

It’s all too much. Everything is too loud again, from the heater to the fridge, to the electricity in the walls.

“Do you like dogs?” I don’t know why that’s what comes out of my mouth, but it is. Cairo snorts. “Yeah, I like dogs. Who doesn’t?” “Assholes. That’s who doesn’t.”

God forbid the mental patients get smut or romantasy, I suppose. Who knows what we might do with such clandestine, taboo topics?