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...
When I was little, my I would’ve told you my safe place was that spot behind the couch where I could build a world with all my Barbies. Or I might have said curled up on that same couch with my dad. Those places never lasted. I had to clean up, dad had projects to work on, nothing that felt comfortable could stay forever. We got a new house later in life. I wasn’t allowed to paint the walls. I couldn’t set plants on those shelves. Couldn’t light candles, you know, living in the basement things. I didn’t pick this mattress but it’s nice and it’s mine for now. Then I moved into a dorm at university. I had 3 roommates (I miss you, if you’re reading this). And I mean yeah, we spilled cider into the carpet and left hair dye in the shower but. It wasn’t ours. It definitely wasn’t mine. I moved twice a year for the next 4 years. And then hopped to a few different homes after that. Living in a suitcase. Went back home for a while, moved my bed around, which was nice. I sticky-tacked some pictu...