Part III

The orderlies make the days pass, differentiate morning from evening from night. Eric, a hugely muscled ex-gang member with olive skin and light eyes treats us like people, listens to us. He hears me go on about this and that, school and work and art and he asks me why I'm here, and I lose it completely. He sees my rage, takes me into another room, holds pillows against his body and tells me to let go. I punch him, over and over again, speaking aloud all of the things I'm afraid to say, afraid to fail, afraid to lose. Things I may never have said aloud. And I cry, and with each punch feel both lighter, in terms of heaviness, and darker, in terms of light. And like my feet might be touching the ground, one toe at a time.