I think I have a high pain tolerance, or maybe it’s a defense to slits I tried to stuff my whole being into while pouring out blood swearing all I needed was to be alone. But she doesn’t want you to be alone. So you slam doors and lock windows with scraped nails, telling her your lies are raw and your hands scratch easily. You ask her what she’s after, she says it’s what you’re looking past. But she can’t possibly think like me. Maybe she’s seen worse, but that doesn’t mean she knows. She likes to hear about things I’ve buried and she remembers my words like their her own ink. She turns my face to hers when I’m not sure what I just said. I blink trying to think of all the confused, misunderstanding things someone could say. Say it, say it. Say it quickly before she can. I underestimate her wordless expressions, I underestimate her. I can’t accept that they might mean the same things as mine. “You are alone, you are alone, you are alone” has been a constant plague in my head in a form of self acceptance and bitter self loathing. But she tastes like home, not so sure what that means, but I think I’m getting close.