And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.

Suicide is, after all, the opposite of the poem.

Now I am going back And I have ripped my hand From your hand as I said I would And I have made it this far.

I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.

Fee-fi-fo-fum - Now I'm borrowed. Now I'm numb.