Your second life starts at 4 a.m. on a Monday morning, before the sun comes up. Before your city takes a communal, exasperated breath at the prospect of another day without breakfast or room to exhale.
From your third story view, you can feel the ache of ten million ribs, ten million pairs of lungs shrinking with each ‘hello’ forced through clenched teeth. Knuckles cracking and temples throbbing and spines curving just to survive.
You traded survival for life approximately twenty-seven minutes ago after waking up next to a girl with a knobby spine and scarred thighs. You can remember the glow of her eyes at sunset and the smell of her sunburnt shoulders and the way she kissed the corners of your mouth but it still won’t tell her story the way you see it now.
She’s a runaway with a heart the colour of the sun and a smile sharper than the razorblades she left behind in Utah. Her apartment is a hole in the wall and she can barely afford to eat but she has never starved the way you have and the circles beneath her eyes have never been as purple as yours.
You have spent two and half years working the night shift, letting men look you over like you’re more than a child in adult’s clothing just to fill your faulty refrigerator. Your neighbours don’t hold the door and your sister is afraid of you and the tattoo on your shoulder cost more than any of this is worth. Who the fuck has a cartoon cat carved into their shoulder, anyway?
But she had traced it with warm, warm fingertips and smiled because it was stupid and she appreciates stupid more than you ever have, ever will. You’ve kissed boys, girls, friends, coworkers but none of them have fucked up your sleep schedule the way this one has. It’s about time you find something meaningful in this rainy city, something you can dig your fingernails into and need like blood in your veins.
Your neighbours are tossing and turning in their beds, reaching for alarm clocks and curtains to block out the sunrise between the skyscrapers. Your balcony is dirty and littered with cigarettes butts that aren’t your own but you’ve never been less miserable to see something earlier than 6 a.m.
You’ll be late for work today but she’ll cook you breakfast and cross her heart that she’ll meet you for dinner and you’re so in love that it hurts. Even if she’s lying, you will burn with happiness over and over and over and only regret every year you chose survival over life.
