in response to Maggiie's article with the same title.

play: "Hotel Ceiling" by Rixton

How I got here:
Born in a hospital, kind of raised, beaten down, crawling around the same small town,
here.
Not standing straight, not smiling. Forgetting who I am. Forgetting what matters, who matters. People have left, friends stopped texting. I stopped reaching out, convinced I'm supposed to be alone. Maybe it's what I deserve. It's all I want anymore.
I read books, telling myself it's my attempt at escaping reality.
Truth be told, it's the only way I experience any sort of life anymore.
Books are windows, Millie. Not portals. Not magic. Not parallel universes you can choose to live in instead of your own.