Life is a dream, the edges blurry–lifting my tongue to find teeth I’ve never seen before crumbling out from my bones. I never knew I was scared until it was all I could feel, my breath empty, heart clenching and unclenching at my center. Two hours after midnight I start to chip apart, my skin breaking into moths who fly past my ears moaning in their grey dresses, so I dream of a woman with a cracked asphalt face, clutching at her cheekbones with talon hands. Is this me? Am I drying in the summer heat, my flesh fractured sand? I used to know how to write this down, I think. I used to have a name for this feeling trembling at the cleft of my lips, almost a sound, almost a part of a word. Someone says hell, but I turn around and the room is as empty as ever, the walls staring straight at each other, me between them in this body, a trembling leaf, stealing parts of the wind for my breath but still always drowning. Every time I stop moving the tide comes in around me. I keep walking forward but, if I’m going to be honest, in the quiet hours before morning I consider turning around, swimming out until the land is lost and sinking into the silence. Night is always coming again.