Why do I insist on this? Why do I believe that I do not deserve better? Because there is nothing more. Because there is nothing else. Because this, even if this is a lie, is mine. Because this is my lie, my pretense, and no matter how intangible, it is more than what a million, two million, countries and countries worth of people alive now can hope for.
This. This is mine. This purple butterfly bruise is mine. This humming, thrumming pain is mine. This madness, this turning away from light, from sound, from flesh and language and color is mine. I insist on this. I deserve this. There is nothing else.
