It’s so cold here. My core is paralyzed: a paper thin sheet of ice coats it beneath the skin. I think the only thing keeping me together is the distant chatter of those around me. Whatever’s left of me is made up of dreams and fantasies and thoughts and sorrows.

At this point, I think I’m so fragile that the slightest touch could crush me into a thousand pieces and scatter me to the winds. I hope I’ll go North, then. Maybe I have more in common with porcelain dolls than I do with any other human being on the planet. I want to make all this ink inside my mouth into something real. I want to believe, I want to forget, I want to exist for more than this shattering agony.

Make me real. Make me forget who I am, help me drown in words and art and pain and beauty. Assist me in this escape and I’ll be as grateful as I can possibly be. Someday I’ll fall into a land of Night and sink peacefully into my discontent.

I will always be falling. Make me real.