Val

i am someone who did not die when i should have died.

i make coffee. i pretend i'm in love with the idea of being alive. i make a point not to stare at the knives sitting on the counter top by the stove.

i could recognize him by touch alone， by smell; i would know him blind， by the way his breaths came and his feet struck the earth. i would know him in death， at the end of the world.

i pour alcohol into the gaping hole inside my chest. it does not heal. not today. maybe tomorrow.