I feel like someone’s pried open my chest with a crowbar. They’ve broken in and taken everything that matters and all I’ve been left with is this hollow shell.
These words are smudging. Am I crying? I don’t know anymore.
Does form follow function? If I look okay will I be okay?
Or should I bleed publicly, standing on a pedestal in the middle of town peeling off layer by layer of skin, with a sign around my neck saying, “this is who I am. please still love me.”

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