**So I don't know much about when and where to give trigger warnings. I tend to give them if it's triggering for me to write, because that means it's probably triggering for someone to read. I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable, so read cautiously.
And FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, do not leave insensitive comments. This is real, so please. Be kind.
❝first time i felt like i was gonna die,
but i've gotten pretty good
at telling myself it's fine.❞
❘❘
A FUCKING PROBLEM?
Heart sinking and head spinning, I sway on the sidewalk.
I don't have a fucking problem. I'm fine.
As I try to steady myself, I shake my head. This is just what happens. Esta no es la primera vez I've been abandoned, feeling hueca y vacía, down and out. Deprimido. There are always moments the morning after, watching the world whir by beyond a foggy mirror and trying to find a place to slip back in unnoticed.
There are always the fights—grinding teeth, wading through riptides, forcing back nausea, choking on sobs, cursing, hating everyone around me, hating cocaine, hating myself.
The miserable memories rise to the surface, tangling the entire conversation with Emmy into a faint murmur, un tornado retorcido de pensamientos that just keep tumbling over... and... over... and... over...
"Neva, I'm worried about you."
I sniffle, tears springing in my eyes.
"I love you, and I'm so worried about you."
A sob chokes me. Why did I yell at her?
"I think you have a problem, Neva."
I don't. No tengo un problema. I...
I try to steady myself. Why can't I stay steady? ¿Por qué me duele tanto la cabeza?
Bushwick is fucking haunting, blurring past me, spiraling and swimming; it moves like a ghostly cityscape, clashing with the impact of each fractured footstep. Everything is echoing, dancing like stars beneath my eyelids every time I blink and pulsating, just throbbing, like el latido del corazón of a decaying urban jungle.
The stoops sprint by me in streaks of black and white. Desperate to catch up, or escape, I fumble faster and faster, away from her voice, away from her worry, away from her, her, her.
No. No tengo un problema.
A weight settles on my windpipe, so heavy that for a long moment, I can't find oxygen. Every breath from my lungs drags like a raspy cough, ragged pants of frustration.
Hace demasiado calor. Why is it so fucking hot en finales de octubre?
A sheen of sweat coats my forehead; plasters tangled strands of hair to my cheeks and neck. Como una segunda piel that I need to peel off. My nails dig into my palms painfully, resisting the urge to scratch and itch and claw at my arms, to pull apart my body one fucking layer at a time. ¿Por qué todavía me siento así?
Like there's something dentro de mí. Gnawing.
A soft breeze sifts through my hair, caressing damp skin and sinking into my bloodstream. I slow, slow, slow, taking in los sonidos y el aire, letting it numb the truth.
YOU ARE READING
Snow
RomanceWhen Neva Álvarez moves to Queens, she's merely biding her time between bartending and dodging her brother's phone calls before her final year at NYU, and with the summer dwindling to an end, it's difficult not to find herself drawn to her new next...
