As a child I wished on shooting stars and candles for my bones to break. For a bone in my arm or maybe a leg to snap. I imagined the bone piercing my skin as it splits in two. Anesthesia. Stitches. I used to hope that I would find myself in a doctors office. The paper on the clipboard would say something awful. I used to find envy in allergies. As a child I craved a heavy despair, maybe I thought it would actualize me. As a child, my idea of a person was a “grown up” who had suffered. And as a child the worst thing I could conspire was the toll of the physical world, and gravity. True despair, I’ve found, makes you crave that gravity to pull you back down, or in, or up.

– brianna kaye