“Lately you’ve been like a bird plucking out its own feathers,” she says, and suddenly the world snaps into focus. I can finally see myself clearly— like I’m watching myself in a video, standing naked in the middle of a blizzard with a pile of black feathers floating around my feet. My hands are shaking, my lips are blue. My eyes are blank and lifeless like an avatar without a motive, doing nothing, waiting for someone to come activate me.

I wave hi. The girl in the video lights up and waves back eagerly. When she smiles, it’s like she becomes a different person. Why is she pretending not to be cold? I zoom in to see her expression more closely, studying her eyes. Oh my god, they are so happy and stupid and empty, it reminds me of that quote by Werner Herzog about the chickens. She looks really cold.

Suddenly I realize that I’m freezing. I start shaking uncontrollably and drop my phone in the snow. Why did I tell myself everything was fine? Why did I believe that I wasn’t cold?

Lately I’ve been like a bird

plucking out it’s own feathers,

like a plant

severing its own roots,

like a clock

deliberately binding its own hands,

like a galaxy

pulling itself apart,

scattering the stars

that once defined it,

like a poet

silencing their muse,

like an artist

compulsively painting over

their masterpiece

again

and again

and again.

—I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack, but that’s how a broken heart feels, right?—

Like a mirage

that vanishes upon approach,

like an opium dream

turning into nightmare,

like an author

editing out the life of their own story,

leaving the pages blank

and setting them on fire.

☣︎