I.

Love is not enough. I still want  to tear my skin  from the outside in.

II.

I have let my bones get picked apart like carrion. I did it. I bit my nails down to the quick.

III.

Fear is not my mother tongue. I do not speak it.    It speaks me.

IV.

This is what I had to tell myself today: I exist. I exist. I am here. This world is not imaginary. Neither am I.

V.

I am not gentle. I am not kind.

— Venetta Octavia, “Confessions From a Mad Girl’s Diary,” What We Left Behind