A New Routine
Casper Cancelado '26
Hara Coleman '26
I’ve been sitting atop ocean blue comforters-
when the moon and the sky are dark and my lights seem to glow.
i sit, watch the portraits shift in the shadows, and begin the process.
first, i trace the cracks in my glue-stained skin, familiarize myself with them, and dig my fingers into them.
once i undo the dental floss stitches holding my glass frame together,
i sigh and spread the shards of my life out across the sheets.
next, i arrange them, like some sort of fucked-up puzzle, until the surface shines clear like a carpeted staircase.
then i stare at the gaping wound i’ve etched for myself,
and memorize each rope and tulle skirt within it.
After that i take a minute to stare at the ceiling and steady myself.
and i begin again.
I pick myself raw like a scab,
ripping stained glass from my eyes and wrenching my rib cage open.
i scrutinize my traitorous heart for any resemblance to the puzzle in front of me, no matter how hard it is; how long it takes,
and cry at what i find.
i bleed into the sheets, then, and go back to sleep. and cry at what i find.