Today I woke from nightmares. I forced myself out of bed somewhere between late and on time. As I walked downstairs, I made no sound and ignored the light switches, filled with a drained sadness. When I turned the kitchen light on, my dad spluttered a bit, making a face from his spot on the air mattress in the living room. It is what it is, he’d told me. But I still felt awkward about waking him so early. He promptly retreated upstairs and it was silent but for the air vents. I immediately put music on while I made my food, desperately wanting to not be alone.

I spent an hour in the kitchen. Went upstairs to continue my morning routine. At some point during my nightmares, I’d been going through these same motions. When I’d tried to put makeup on my cheeks, it had been dark purple on accident and it made me frustrated. The air was quiet and mundane. A morning routine for every morning, with never any change.

As the bus started its turn toward the city, I looked up at the sky, at the clouds illuminated in several colors by the rising sun; it waved a soft hello to the blue hiding behind the clouds on the far side of the horizon. In that moment, I considered staying on the bus until my fare ran out, just to see how far it’d take me. I wanted to catch a bus going the opposite direction—to another city—and step off into unfamiliar territory. For that fleeting moment, it was so strong. Everything felt pink painted in blue and I was yellow in the middle of it.

Off the bus, and sitting down by the road. A cluster of rock to call my temporary home and everything stood still, just like every morning. Staring down the road with eyes that did not see, I wondered, not for the first time that day, if I was still sleeping.

I saw two millipedes on the sidewalk. I thought the way they wiggled their heads and antennae was cute. In the school hallway, cleaning supplies cluttered the entire space. Gross. I used to sit and eat breakfast there. I ignored it and walked right outside again, and sat down on the cement bench.

I sat there for a while, watching, almost waiting. There were clusters of flowers with pentagon cores. It was about 78 degrees, overcast. Beautiful weather. For some reason, there were yellow leaves scattered all over the ground, and I felt like part of them. If I hoped really hard, I could almost turn the world to autumn.

I sit in the window to eat breakfast. The sun embraces my skin and I’m warm again. The glass has metal netting in between the panes. There’s a dead crane fly in the corner of the windowsill, a second shell resting here. The bricks on the other side jut out at an angle, and I find myself wanting to know exactly how it feels to hang from there, the rough lines of the clay digging into my fingers. The drop isn’t too far—nothing I haven’t fallen from out of trees. The outside wall would probably bite into my knees. The cuts in my hands would sting every time I washed them for a week afterward.

Someone’s singing and the sunlight through the window marbles a pattern onto the lockers. The moment is frozen, delicate. I walk down the hallway and all of my muscles are sore. I ponder of frightened little girls who claim to greet their demons with a smile. I can’t remember if I ever thought that way. Most of them just want to feel strong. Are they convincing themselves?

In a different (and open) window, with a leg hanging out, I watch the cars roll by. None of the drivers ever look up to see me. The sky makes me think of October. Absentmindedly, I massage a fresh bruise on my leg. Honey and almonds in my mouth. I feel violet and black.

I feel like the texture of quiet, scratchy like wool and bright like headlights at night. It’s just a regular day and I don’t know why I feel so strange. I’m made of soft wood and I’m wrapped in water. I can almost hear confusion shouting somewhere far away, but nothing is really tangible. I’m not sure if I’m even really here.