Some days I reach my breaking point much before I get out of bed. My heart so filled with dreams or at least my head that was empty for that short moment of release sinks with each echo of my alarm clock.

Breathe.

That’s the first thing I manage to tell myself. This is where I am today and probably tomorrow; I have to remind myself to breathe and coax my chest to pull out of the slump of my bed and my wrists to push myself away from its safety, while my feet drag me away from its warmth. Away I go into the world, and I’m already breaking down.

I stay in the shower too long because I just stand there feeling the constant rhythm of the running water melting across my face. It’s the closest thing I have to my sheets that I’ve already left behind, but eventually my body’s relentless need for air beckons me to think. You need your brain to breathe, and as mine jolts back to reality, the thoughts some flooding with it, but unlike the puddle at my feet, none of them go away. And it’s each step towards my faded towel that brings me farther and farther away from the blankness. Soon enough I’m sitting far away from myself only realizing the change because of my jittering teeth that are much like my hands. How did I get here?

You can only break until there’s nothing left to fall away from you and here I am empty.