How much hatred can you tuck into your own body? I have found it sings loudest in the morning; hums against my hip bones as I wake to laments against my window: birds singing a hushed lullaby for solitary beds. I search underneath the crevices of a forgotten cornerstone; place a finger on the wishbone saved for that day I will need the 50/50 luck it brings. At night, I make tea to perfection, the cup a steeped loneliness, my hands a hollow sun that never rose.

When the ceramic burns my palm I take it as a prayer: a reminder that each blood beat is akin to miracle. Each moment lonely is still in breath. A warbled tune is still a note heard. When I feel as though I am fading I trace my fingers along the hard surface around me; mumble I am here over and over, until it’s just gibberish and a finger pressed against stone or glass: a knowing that you don’t need to leave a mark to have existed at all.