The kids stole my bed, and I looked outside at orange leaves, and the air seeping through my window felt brisk instead of cold, and I knew my breath would be visible as I lived.
Do I deserve the happiness that I have? I don’t know, but I want to.
I allow myself to digest my body from the inside out.
I’m comfortable with the word “queer,” but people still don’t get it. This secret is trapped. It has been for years.
I think about how I told my friend at lunch today, I don’t say I love you enough, but I’ll do better.
When is the best time to fix my roof? When the sun is out, and I can muster up the courage to say that my life is worth something.
Okay. Before I (officially) begin: I love you.
I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. I was going to pack the clothes, and the books, and the journals, and the letters. And this time, it would work.
“Such a simple question, such a complicated request — please, know me.”
Trauma took away my purpose and certainty. Over the course of last semester, my main goal was to regain a sense of autonomy, which I hoped would give me what I was missing.