The doorframe took the skin off

The appeal says thirty more days. Thirty. I screenshot it next to the original one-star because one of them is wrong about who I am and I have decided it is them, not me, which is the only decision that lets me stand up in the morning. I do not know if there is a person reading these or if a screen just files them somewhere.

Mrs. Adler asked me to come thirty minutes early "for a friend." I did not ask which friend. I should have asked which friend. The friend was Devon. She said "we meet again" at a volume the doorman got for free. I said "no we don't." It was the right line. It was the only line I had. Then I went into the kitchen to refill my water bottle like a professional and spilled the whole thing down the front of my own white shirt. Some things I don't get to choose.

She reached for my wrist again. Same hand, same reach, different room. I pulled and the doorframe took the skin off the back of my hand and I bled onto Mrs. Adler's stoop in front of whoever was passing. I did not photograph this one. I am tired of photographing myself as evidence. I bled and I walked out.

On the F train home I felt guilty and I am still working out what for. For going back. For not asking which friend. For letting a second visit happen on the same day the algorithm took another thirty days from me. I sat with the paper towel in my lap and watched a man read a newspaper next to me and I was glad he didn't look at my hand.