I look at the lines on my arms. My arm was pressed against the glass of the office window. I look around. Was I flaunting my internal agony? My suffering? I hide my arm under my shirt. I smiled weakly as the lady behind the desk asked me what I needed. "I need a jacket. Is there one I can borrow? I just need it for today." She nods and asks for my size. I tell her my preferred size and wait.
I hum as she hands me the fleece school jacket. I thank her and walk off. As I leave the front office area, I slide the jacket onto my freezing frame. A familiar comfort fills my chest. I zip the jacket up and smile. My hands find the pockets, and I zip the right pocket zipper up and down. Up and down. over and over again as I walked to class. I stood outside the classroom door. Sure, this wasn't my jacket. I got one last year and found comfort in it while I was in the psychiatric unit, but I didn't care. I felt safe again. I felt protected again in the walls of the 4-year prison I was in until I was 17.
I wrote this about something I did today. Literally a few minutes ago, but that's not important