requiem for an illusion

Dear K-

Seven years. Seven fucking years. Broken. The illusion gone. I hope you're happy.

I sat and stared outside for hours. I watched the light fade. My reflection slowly became bolder and more visible in the window as evening set in and the backdrop shifted to black, but I still looked like a ghost. And some days, that's exactly how I feel. After the initial flurry of new adventures, new thoughts, new occupations, everything settles back to grey. Everything ends the same way: with me, staring out a window drinking tea in the dark, wondering if this is what I imagined being adult would be like after all. Living alone isn't all that bad sometimes.

I've started wearing rings to hide my broken knuckles. I thought maybe the glitter would distract from the blood. I am not sure if it is working. All I know is every time I wash my hands it hurts when the water rushes over the wounds. That's the price I pay, I suppose.

This is disconnected. This is a mess. I feel like my sense of balance has been destroyed. They know who you are now, so they know who I am. It's no longer for the desk drawer if they can trace it back. Perhaps it is time for me to disappear for a while. That's what usually occurs whenever things get a little too present.

Until then,
-k