Sometimes when I am asleep, and the wind is coming in through the window of my childhood bedroom, I can almost feel you here. For a sleepover, the way we used to do all the time. It was just our clothes then, I didn’t know what was mine or yours. It was our day then, we never left each other’s sides. It was our life then, a pact that if we made it to 40 and were still single, we’d run away together and live on the beach in Mexico. I always wake up in a sweat from those dreams now. Now I live in your phone as an unknown cell number, I live in your photos as a girl you used to know. I live in that stain I left on the carpet of your truck when my bubblegum ice cream melted. Now I’m the most hated girl. For twenty-five years in a row. If you’ve never been the last choice friend, undiagnosed depression at a very young age, artsy but filled with melancholy girl, then you’ve never been the most hated girl. But I’ve worn her skin all my life. At first it was the separate group chat with 9 memb...
I never believed in the whole waiting to tell someone you loved them. Or having to wait to make sure you’re in love. I feel like I love everyone I’ve ever really met in some way. Not to sound like an award-winning Netflix special, but this one’s for all of the people I’ve ever loved. There was the first “I love you.” I loved loving you. But this was the you who only showed me what love was by taking it away from me. There was the you who held the door for me, the you I saw at the red light. The you who taught me microeconomics. The you who was a girl. There’s the you who I wonder about every couple years, and I wonder if I should’ve told you I loved you way back then. There’s you who said you loved me and I didn’t love you back, (I hope you’re still doing good). And I liked you but you weren’t a very good conversationalist and then there was you and I wasn’t sure about the way you dressed. There was you, who had the sketchy friends, and you who I’d prob...