In which I feel sorry for myself

I never really thought I'd be here. Here, this state of mind.

Here I am, though, pouring time through my fingers like sand. The dishes in the sink are sitting unwashed, and the paper I meant to write is untouched, and I am unrested.

Un un un. I am unwell, unwise. And for no reason--unreasonably--I am feeling unloved.

Neglect. Loneliness. I don't feel those things often, especially not these days. I remember being small, though, sitting in the corner of the storage room, snuffling by myself while my family finished eating dinner. It was cramped, in an almost-comforting but almost-stifling sort of way, and it was dark, and I thought maybe I would never come out and no one would care that I had gone. Maybe I would just stay there until someone came to find me--I'd stay overnight if need be, or for days, weeks. A month. A year. When the family was packing everything up to move again, they'd find me, still curled up, wrapped in this quilt like it was a kimono.

I need a quilt again. I need a small corner to stuff myself into. But really, I need a shoulder to cry on, and I need a reminder that it's all okay.

It's okay. It's okay.

It's okay. I'm okay.

(Maybe what I am really saying, have really been saying all these years, is: Please don't forget I exist.)

It's okay. It's going to be okay.