I brush my teeth until my gums whiten and blood stains the sink. I press my fingernails into my palms until they break the skin and the red flows freely. I fixate on a single speck of dust on my bedroom floor until my eyes dry out and start to itch. I devour food too quickly, leaving me bloated and uncomfortable for hours. I starve myself until my body begs for nourishment, then I indulge in excess and complain about hunger pangs. I spend hours meticulously building a tower from a deck of playing cards, sweating under the intensity of my focus, and turn the fan on at the finalization of the summit. I construct my dreams too close to the edge of the sea, cultivate my hopes on the slopes of an active volcano. I place my heart within your reach—beating and raw— there on your bedside table. I let myself remember your name. I go hours without water, only to buy another balm with manuka honey to soothe the split, dry skin of my lips. I confine myself to my room and lament my sadness. I stare too long at the discoloration beneath my eyes in the blotchy bathroom mirror at 3 a.m. I complain too loudly about seasonal depression and refuse to step into the sunlight. I immerse myself in apocalyptic narratives, pollution, endangered species, and war—far beyond what is a healthy amount prescribed for a barely present high school graduate. Knowledge is destruction. Knowledge is survival. 

Unknowingly, you embody both.

I’m walking a tightrope ten feet above the ground, with your arms below me, and I’ve never been more conscious of where I place my feet. I could fall. I truly could. I could let this take my life. 

But I don’t think I want to.

Everything is either overwhelming or insufficient. It stings or it remains stagnant. I cower in the corner or I focus on its chest, waiting for the rise and fall. 

Oh, how I long to understand what it is to be in perfect balance.