I know I could do better. I could go outside, get some sun. Instead, I watch from my window as the snow falls as if God is grating parmesan over the city: Say when. I’ve never had the chance to love desperately, but I’ve felt rage worm its way through my stomach like a parasite. So many things I cannot say aloud: It would be wrong to bring a child into the world to watch me suffer, to suffer with me won’t win me any friends. Am I worse off than anyone else, though? I sip my dark roast, spell my name in carrots on the counter. I am no longer, at least, a monument to damage: my ribcage a coliseum, its broken edges jabbing at the sky. The faint sounds of Earth, Wind, and Fire play in my kitchen, and I smile, even shimmy a little. None of us will last forever. Someday, maybe soon, everything will ache a little less.