we are old people.

coming home was like remembering. and she felt as if (and this was a feeling she had felt before, but now more than ever) she was spread out, not stretched but strewn, piecemeal. shards of her heart in many places at once, distanced both by highway miles and the space inside her skull where the emotional counterparts were kept, protected. this made it hard to experience the joy or pain of having invested those pieces of herself, as they seemed to cancel eachother out, leaving her tingling, but absent.

she begged her faith not to leave her, but as it crept, heavy with shame, beyond her reach she realized that she was alone again. as she mouthed the words, the truth, but mostly her fears into the night she imagined taking a steaknife to her own weaknesses. its true there would be blood, lots of it. but with time the skin would heal and toughen beyond recognition. and her lies would be as good as truth.

legs shakey, recently reunited with the stars, she wondered, almost screamed it, "was i ever a real person to you, even then?" but held her tongue because some part of her still believed that this was growing up.