I know I am still crazy. I know I am crazy, not because I remember the days when I carved caves into my skin or because I still carry those cracks on my flesh that have collapsed but will never quite fill in. 

No, I know I am crazy because I miss those days. I miss when biology wasn’t theoretical and the only dissections I performed were on myself. I miss digging for fossils in my skin until I found a monster’s bones. I miss being free, and wild, and wreckless, and I miss having nothing to lose but myself. 

I wonder at night how I am still alive, but then I remember: only the good die young. I am young but I’ll never be good so I am immortalized despite every fountain that wasn’t water and every cup that was. 

And I can’t talk about my past in case someone mistakes my issues for a bucket list.

I miss being all whispers and soft lines instead of the subject of whispers and soft lies. I miss being small, bronze tinted, and framed. I miss being good.

If lightning struck then, I could have fallen and it still would have been a tragedy.

Because only the good die young.