There are nights I imagine my body hanging from the ceiling fan.

On these nights, I remember every tear stained pillowcase. All of the bone chips that have dug their way from my ribs to my lungs. Only so many cracks before I must shatter.

On these nights, I write. Of happiness, but mostly, of grief; the pain of loss, the ache of instability, the yearning for childhood. For ease. A yearning which can only come from too long spent growing up too fast.

On these nights, I fear. Not the darkness of oblivion. Not the depth of the unknown. But the sculpted stone of what is known. Of each fragile face bowed not to pray, but only to cry. In singularity. Solace.

On these nights, I love. Not my life. Not myself. But those whom return the gift in haste. Those who will survive without me, but will thrive with me.

On these nights, I decide. The ballot for. (Against.) The bullet.

On these nights, I live.