It's one of those nights. Phantoms scratching at the

window panes begging to be let in, for me to acknowledge

them after being numb for so long. My lizard brain hisses

objection, it thinks it has been protecting me from the

grief I should be feeling. It is both comforting and

terrifying, knowing the dam is cracking and that soon I'll

be swept away in the current of pain again. I don't have

enough fingers to count my losses anymore, so I cut them

off one by one until I can't hold anything. It all just drops

to the floor, andI shove them under my bed with

everything else I want to keep but don't want to see. Now

the scratching is growing louder, more insistent, the glass

becoming etched with names and faces and I want to look

away but I'm transfixed, an ache building in my chest that

needs to be heard. It shouts at me to feel feel feel, and a tear

manages to leak from my eye before I shut down again. But

it's coming. I know it and I don't want to stop it. I need to

remember I'm alive, even if I have to hurt for a while. A

long while, probably. I'd rather feel pain than this

nothingness.