When I was still a real live human being, mornings weren't wailing sirens that stabbed my ears before even the sun was awake, blank gun shots screaming through my head until I pushed off to run. Mornings weren't ghost stained bandages that shed when I turned no matter how meticulous I was, tears spilling down my arms, dripping like needles off my hands. Mornings weren't trying to figure out if my shirt sleeves could hide the war I had been drafted into, or if I had remembered to bring extra armor in case the thin protection I had ruptured.
When I was a still a real live human being, school didn't revolve around a mock, misused Chapstick container tucked into the secret pouch in my backpack. School wasn't decorated with too many wristbands draped over the frame of every gym class, or arms pulled closer to my chest than normal, because any friction triggered my land mines, fireworks streaking up my skin to my shoulder before exploding in a dazzle of colors. School wasn't a foundati