I still avoid stepping on cracks.
not because I am worried about breaking my mother's back,
but because it is comforting to know exactly where my feet land.

These little obsessions and repetitions disguise themselves this way,
though they are born of an increasing anxiety whose origin I haven't yet pinpointed.
While I avoid the task of investigating,
I will eradicate every stray hair from my thoughts and my face.

And if I am melancholy it is because I am sorry that your mom died.

What is missing?
The aching radiating out through my fingertips.
There is something else, but what?

You don't fit in anywhere. Not at that hospital, alone.
Square pegs being forced into round holes.
Blood pulsing through the veins at a steady tempo of 72-85
makes me nauseous, makes me hot.

Feeling her pulse against mine must be a great thing,
but I like to think that I don't have one.
It is easier than having to admit that I am alive.

I need a stiff drink.