.

I can’t sleep.

This is nothing new.

The nights are long and monotonous, and bleed into the days. The weekend passes like a bad dream.

Monday comes and I make a performance art of punctuality. I arrive at every single class and meeting and activity exactly on time.

Then Tuesday. Tuesday can fuck itself.

Together. The word is neon, glowing in front of me, and a month ago, I didn’t know the meaning.

Marshall, always breathless, always waiting for me, and I was so rabidly protective of it because it was mine. Mine. Mine and no one else’s.

Now it’s nonexistent.

On Wednesday, I go down to the west hall bathroom on my office hour to look at secrets, maybe occupy myself for a while with someone else’s problems. It’s been days since I visited the west hall bathroom. Days since it even occurred to me to worry about anyone else’s business.

Maintenance has painted over the wall.

It was bound to happen, but I hadn’t really considered that secrets could just disappear. Not now, when I need them.

The new color is a whiter white than the other three walls. When I stand very close, I think I can still see a few pale ghosts in outline under the paint.

What gives me the authority to offer anyone sage advice, anyway?

On Thursday night, I pierce my ears.

I sterilize the needle using a lighter and a cotton ball soaked in rubbing alcohol. For the first one, I numb it with an ice cube, holding it there until the skin feels rubbery and like I’m touching someone else. After the initial resistance, the needle goes in easily.

In the mirror, the girl’s eyes fill with tears, but her expression doesn’t change.

The second one, I don’t bother with the ice. My reflection stares at me. Her face turns red, and then goes back to normal.

I sit on the porch in my rabbit-print pajamas, with my bedspread wrapped around my shoulders like a cape, and watch the sun rise.