I always try to quarantine any emotion that has to do with feeling small. Or alone. The first thing I do when that happens is check how close I am to ovulation, and I almost always blame it on that. I’m brilliant at running calculations and crafting theorems to hold my cycles responsible. Tremendously skilled at justifying sadness, whether it’s the first day of ovulation or a week away.
I suppose anything is better than admitting that some feelings have roots, a body, eyes, guilt; that they have nothing to do with the Moon and that — somehow — they can be explained.
I want so badly to put myself in everyone else’s place that sometimes I completely forget to inhabit my own. And I let it rot. And I keep wondering if anyone ever looks through my window. If they check that I’m still there. If they make sure there’s still a light on.
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