i play picross in the dark.

mostly.

it’s the last thing i do at night after i’ve brushed my teeth and checked the knobs on my stove and stared at my carpet in search of the patterns that will keep my mom safe as she travels to say goodbye to her sister. my body is just dirty clothes, and i’m tired of washing my hands. occult, primeval, orphic, primordial rituals for the in-between thing who believes in nothing.

i sit in bed in the pitch black of my room staring at the glowing screen of my nintendo switch with no thoughts like a blood-sniffing shark. i exchange words for numbers and shapes, navigating negative space and mirror dimensions. one, empty, one, two, empty, one, two, three, four, five. points become lines. lines become planes. planes become art via rote instruction instead of inspiration. steady is a knife held sure by faith but sometimes auto-pilot is less traumatic.

we stole fire and used its warmth and light to make tools for digesting grief. i’m always full but always hungry. i watch reality break through the thin crust of hope that everything will be okay. earthquake-violent and volcano-deadly. at least, in the dark, i can pretend. you can live again but you’ll have to die twice in the end. counting grains of sand and arranging them into lines and planes. fingernail scratches. torn fabric. shapes. patterns. art. seven, eight, nine, empty, empty, empty, three, two, one.

my hymns were written by believers. women who love women, men long dead, poets so huge they may as well be planets. they’re waiting for me when i wake to screaming and begin counting again.