I'm standing in the middle of the room at a party where I know no one. I wasn't invited. I'm just here, holding a drink like a crutch for all the broken parts of me that I'm too afraid to share. No one is really paying attention, so it's probably ok if I just slip out unnoticed. As I move toward the door, the universe has different plans for me. The crutch – my drink – drops to the floor. Someone – you – notices. You walk over to me. You start with small talk until we both realize my finger is bleeding from the broken glass. I smile because all I can think of is the line from Richard Siken's Wishbone, "I'm bleeding, I'm not just making conversation." This is the way my mind works. You read this paragraph like you read the look in my eyes. You look confused, like you might not understand. But I promise, if you stay a little longer, if you read a little more of what I have to say, you'll get it – whatever it is.