“Such a simple question, such a complicated request — please, know me.”
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.
Okay. Before I (officially) begin: I love you.
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.
I think about how I told my friend at lunch today, I don’t say I love you enough, but I’ll do better.
I’m comfortable with the word “queer,” but people still don’t get it. This secret is trapped. It has been for years.
I allow myself to digest my body from the inside out.
Do I deserve the happiness that I have? I don’t know, but I want to.
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.
I’m trying to live in memories and hope for the future and remain in the present moment; impossibly I think I might actually be doing it, but not enough — never as much as I want to.