Its midnight and I am freezing, shaking and alive with cold and pain. My fingers ache with lack of circulation as I hold onto the vacuum hose. Bent over, straining to reach the far corners of my car, I shiver and clench my teeth.

I am urgent and burning, heat of anger flushing my cheeks. There is no fire like heartache, but its not enough to warm my fingers or my tears as they trace down my face and leave little dark spots on the driver’s side seat I’m trying to clean.

I cradled orphans in my hands but its not enough. I taught mom yoga and went to NYU and never got a speeding ticket, but its not enough. I told you about Bolivia and headstands and my plans for the weekend, I did the dishes and never asked for handouts, but its not enough.

All you see is my car and its dirty corners, the small collection of leaves under the driver’s side seat. To you these leaves represent my failure in its entirety.

I failed to protect myself when I was raped. I failed to graduate with honors. I failed to do something important after graduation. I am failing now by waiting to go to Denver, to get a master’s degree instead of going straight to law school. I never dated the right guys, dressed the right way or joined the right clubs.

I don’t eat meat, care about money or like going to the movies. We have nothing in common and whenever I try to share my life with you, you say something like: yoga sounds terrible for your back, you eat the most ridiculous foods, Bolivia’s probably full of cowboy rapists.

So I will vacuum my car. I will do this one thing because I have to, because I can’t afford to lose the car right now. But I am burning up with anger and heartache because I know that we are done. We are done.