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I slammed the car door on my leg today. It ripped the tights I was wearing and the skin underneath the tights. A small bubble of blood peaked out at me from the inside of my leg, red and angry as if to say, "What are you doing letting the cold in?" I apologized to the red blood cells I had disturbed and bowed my head in appreciation to the white as they brandished their swords to fight the army of infection that was marching in through the small breech in my skin. We were all a little peeved at the early morning disturbance, but we smoothed our ruffled feathers and set to work repairing the broken skin. About an hour later, I looked down to see how things at the construction sight were going. The Platelets had arrived; a hard scab was forming. Those guys were so dependable. What a team. I decided a raise was in order, steak, potatoes, spinach, broccoli. Heck, maybe I'd just eat a couple of nails for dinner.

I pulled a pair of knee-highs out of my purse. They were grey and blue. I was wearing brown and white. I put them on, covering the hardened scab that would substitute for my skin for the next week or two, and then I finished off the "Nothing I Own Matches" look with a pair of converse shoes that belong in the trash. I spilled red paint on them once. The spill looked like someone else's angry blood cells, and even though I knew it wasn't, I still felt a little defensive toward their bright red belligerence. Head up, ignore the shoes.

I got back in the car to drive home, pumped some tunes, and sang at the top of my lungs like it was my heart that had been broken and not Sara Bareilles's. Back at home, I pulled in the garage and turned off the car halfway to the end of Gonna Get Over You. Feeling the need for some closure, I finished the end of Sara's song in my best opera voice, only sort of mocking her. I put away the stuff that had been in my car and found myself in front of a mirror. I turned my leg to face the reflection and admired the newly constructed scab from a distance, pretty beautiful. "How did we do that?" I asked the team. Nobody answered. They were safe inside my skin once again and couldn't hear me.

I sang a couple more songs but only half heartedly, dropping out and humming when I forgot the words. I thought about my chords. I had a pretty nice set. I put my hand to my throat and sang a couple notes. "How do you guys know how to make the right sound?" I asked, but all they said was "Oooooo, How'ma gonna get over you."

I always thought I was The Boss, that I ran the show, that the team was under my direction, but I hadn't called the Platelets when I shut my leg in the car door. I hadn't armed the white blood cells, and I didn't even know how a voice that I had previously believed to be mine could sing a high G. I would have stepped back from myself, but when I stepped, so did the team. "Woah," I said, and they all nodded. "So then... who?" but the scab was in place and they were safe inside my skin.