“In the end, I did it to myself.” Is surely everyone’s fear.

This isn’t a poem but I’ll write. On the way back from a 7pm class… dim lights from the bus illuminate my showered too long ago hair. It’s tied though, in a French braid. Enough to make it look like I tried something with it that morning. Which in truth, I did. I wove my fingers tirelessly until my arms ached. I did it so silently that I could hear the air conditioning hum uninterrupted.

I raise my bag to my chest taking extra care it touches no other soul.

I stare at my palms, the floor, the shoes of the man across from me. Anywhere else but his face.

People on either side are preoccupied with whoever just popped back into their life on their glowing phones.

Do I want that? The popping? I know I want something adjacent to it. Like the music in my ear. Like theology podcasts. Like staring at the setting sun from a large window at the front of the bus. Catching glimpses of my reflection in the driver’s mirror.

I make my way to my dorm.

I slump on my bed and watch tv wishing that I could have whatever they were having.

I go to sleep writing on an app no one ever reads. In the end I did it to myself. Let’s hope I don’t do it tomorrow.