points

There's a point you can't look for that means you wait; homework tucked away, lips chapped yet somehow unbleeding, socks on in bed the way you never have before. Because no one loves you and everyone does, you touch your own face with curious fingers, marvel at how much more you like your reflection in the mirror. A perfect example of the shiny new hate you have for your body (you look good, but you have real qualms with constantly feeling awful) comes in the form of the pain in your lower back, the little ache where your spine dips that's mysteriously still around, despite the curlicue posture you adopt when you write or read or watch TV, blankets pushed back even though the air in your room is cold. 

There's a point you can't look for that makes you paranoid; nails tapping on your knees, no short sleeves but no sunscreen either, the back of your neck itchy with sweat. It's light outside, and you love the feeling, arms outstretched in 50 degree weather that feels like repentance, but your eyelids twitch when you cross gazes with people you don't know, and your wrists have scaly, dried skin peeling around the lumps where the bones stick out, overly rough. You look all around you all the time, the same way you do when you cross the street, and it's hard to avoid making eye contact with people when they're staring at you. 

There's a point you can't look for that makes you angry; time slows down when you know not to look for something, grates on your nerves with its never-ending slip and slide, grips both of your elbows and holds you until you're begging for new ground. Two of the fingers on each of your hands tighten every time you wince with tiredness, swell a little when you binge on chips to make the bad taste of pain go away. Breath feels weighted, limited, you feel old the same way you used to feel so incredibly young. Nothing is done yet, you're still free, and still you're chomping at the bit to be tied up again, have something to be responsible for so long as you can do it alone. 

There's a point you can't look for that feels like that Bruce Springsteen song, Growin' Up; but it's too cliche because it feels stupid to say it, feels like you're putting an ugly black mark on your back by acting a little childish. It's not growing up, really, or growing old. It's leaving, living, walking forward instead of retreating. It feels like stepping out of the water after a long swim and sighing with relief when the air doesn't get you cold, just dries you off. It feels like when Christmas is real again, bright and exciting and shiny, brand new. It feels like falling forward and thinking you broke your wrist when it slides sideways, all wrong, but there's a five dollar bill on the sidewalk and the grocery store is just around the corner. 

There's a point you can't look for, but you'll find it, anyway.