- read 52 books (1 per week): lofty but even if i read 1/2 the goal, i’ll have read more books than i did in 2021
- exercise more! yoga once a day.
- stretch before bed
- get a job
- get my own place
- take more photos/videos of moments i don’t want to forget
- write at least 250 words a day
- less coffee. less sugar. less junk food.
- complete a kickass portfolio for grad school applications in december
- say no (when applicable)
- say yes (when applicable)
- practice expressing my feelings and needs (scary)
- worry less about the “should”s
- try to face things more directly, less avoidance
- be more forgiving and kind to myself
- draw my boundaries and try to maintain them
- create more things
the world feels colder
why did you have to leave?
some days i feel at peace
some nights i can’t sleep
my hands are not my own
look down at shredded fingers
could there be someone else inside
trying to rip her way out
is there something under my skin that
she’s trying to find
sometimes i think i’d like to sleep for a hundred years
just me in a pod, floating through space
swaddled in staticky silence
they’ve stepped out for a moment but they’ll be back soon just wait
and having to wrap your mind around the impossible truth that they will never return again, that they could be in the next room or on another planet and the distance doesn’t even matter because regardless, you just want to see them, to hold them, but you can’t
that is the collapse of the chest and the burn behind the eyes. when you realize how long it’s been since you’ve said their name or seen their face and it pulls all the air out of your lungs and out of the room until you are left gasping on the floor.
it helps me to talk to them. “hi, i was thinking of you today. i hope you are okay. i miss you so much but maybe you are at the beach, or flying to the top of a mountain. maybe you’re finally enjoying some rest, some good deep sleep. maybe we can meet each other in our dreams sometime.
i love you.”
the pursuit of pleasure
and pleasurable delusions
i used to promise myself i would not have to live past 25.
“this will not last forever. soon this will all just be a distant memory.”
i said this over and over, and it was comforting. it felt like magic,
and it was true.
i am 27.
beautiful, like an alien
i don’t need anyone
a pillar of marble, standing alone in the desert
am i the first memory
vice grip on the side of mom’s jeans
stumbling across white linoleum
there’s a cookie jar in the shape of a cow
i want it
am i the worst memory
frozen in the doorframe
she doesn’t recognize me from the tub
she screams for a razor
am i the reflection in the mirror
unfamiliar and crude
am i the people i have hurt
am i the people i have held
why is it easier to forgive a stranger than yourself