I lay in bed and thought of cutting my wrists in the shower. I wanted to shoot myself in the face with a gun that released so many bullets at once, which would fan out and hit every part of my face and explode it into nothing, into mush. I tried to relax, but I could not because itchiness and heat were all over me everywhere. There was nothing in me that did not mourn. I knew I would always lose what was good. That was the kind of person I would always be. I could not believe the ripping, unbreathable pain in me, the shaking knot that twisted itself into my lower back, the ache in my jaw.
