My right hand, the inside with its lines across the palm and spreading up toward my fingers, is covered in tiny little paper-cut-looking slits. No matter what I try, I have something like eczema and the itch of it is something akin to poison ivy. I scratch at it without thinking at this point. I caught my Dad watching me the other day and stopped, flapped my hand a bit and said, "I can't help it." 

There are dust bunnies. So many. They are under the bed and in me, scurrying across the wooden floors of my home and my heart. They are moving much too fast through the empty, bumping into toys and crayons and dried up play-doh, then coming to a weary stop.