I slowly wake myself from a nightmare.
The taste of three bottles of pills dissolves
to morning coffee breath. I’d do anything
to decompose the memory, the dream.
So I walk ten miles in place in total today.
I buy a white babydoll dress and four bras,
take the time in the fitting room to untangle
the straps and the lace, hang them back up.
I write in my diary, my little book of horrors.
I note that there is forty nine more days until
I will be an adult. I will try to be a good girl.
I will make all of my healthcare decisions.
I will not make horrible choices in moments
of weakness or panic. The days rot behind me,
my list of to-dos grows longer with the hours
I forfeit to exhaustion. I stand up in the light.
I water my garden in the mouth of the sun,
choking to inflate my lungs with hot June air.
I fade into warm showers. I smear my lips red,
smudge them with the tip of my index finger,
cherry-bitten. I paint my face like a real girl. 
I look human and whole. But I am neither.
I change my clothes. I change my expression.
I do not change. I do not grow horns from my head.
I eat two slices of moldy bread by accident
and vomit them up until stars flood the bathroom.
I cry to my mother about this. I fix my makeup.
I ignore my friends. I ignore my heartbeat rising.
I eat too many chocolate-covered strawberries 
and savor the crunch of ice in my teeth. I melt
myself into sunshine, seem calm, seem sweet, 
seem innocent. They’ve forgotten what I’ve done,
why I dream the horrible things I now dream.
It’s easy to pretend to live beyond that moment,
but I am still there, in hell. Despite, I undo my bed,
go to sleep, and find myself at the start, at home.
This is where the magic happens. I relive time. 
I devolve to iterations of the same story replaying
as I slowly fall asleep into the arms of a nightmare.