Replay the night when your worst nightmare gained a pulse and grew two legs that refused to stop running towards you. Tattoo the word ‘Death’ on your wrist twelve times, so whenever you go to check the time you know it doesn’t matter. Every hour is the same. Take a baseball bat to your television, smash your radio, and delete all of the music on your phone except for the one sad song that was on endless repeat the night you realized how alone you were. Crash your car because you know there isn’t a bus station for miles – now you’re trapped. Paint his face on the back of your hand because you know nobody as well as him. Every night, sleep bundled within the sheets still engulfed in his scent. Never wash them until you’re picking apart the stitching in search of one more whiff. Call his voicemail every morning, and wait until the radio silence fills your eardrums. But never speak. Tie your shoes with regrets and bathe them in your hair. Breathe sorrow; you will somehow be shocked when the sadness that’s chasing after you catches up as you sleep – it’ll steadily knock on your door until the sun rises. Then it will jump inside of you and thrive until you do not know the difference between morning and mourning.
Laura DeLuca was born and raised in Poughkeepsie, NY. She is currently a senior at Binghamton University majoring in English Rhetoric and General Literature. She is an editor of the Binghamton Law Quarterly, as well as an editor and member of the executive board for Ellipses Literary Magazine, which is her university’s official on-campus literary magazine for undergraduates.