Emotionally unstable. Trembling hands. 1 mg Xanax. One beer. I’m lost again.

Forcing myself not to smile, to forget, to keep the door closed. Newcomers aren’t welcome anymore. But newcomers never listen, they never care about the unhealed wounds, nor about the scars on the soul. They’re only tattooes, the stranger said. You’re cool. We shall be ok.

A tomboy. Shaped the way I am. In and out. One that could erase my past and write something new: the novel I’ve been waiting for. Premature ventricular contractions again. I should stop dreaming. I should stop drinking. And I should stop being.