I’m trying to write less about romantic love.
I am worried about where I see myself in it – no-fucking-where – and though my worries are genuine, I also realize that I’m simply running in circles about it that it’s getting tiresome. All this worrying, where does this leave me?
No-fucking-where – there’s where.
I’m trying to write less about sadness.
Because truthfully, oftentimes a bad day is just a bad day. Likewise, a trying day is simply a trying day. Some days I lose, other days I gain. Isn’t this – without the need to feel and sound tragic – what’s called life?
I’m trying to write less about all the ways I think I fall short.
I’m turning twenty-five soon. Isn’t it about damn time that I stop apologizing for existing? I’ve existed for quarter-century. I was doing so well for awhile, but lately, I notice old habits popping up again. Why do I always need validation to be myself?
It shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t be this way.
Why is it that everything I love – myself included – I love alone?
I never chose to be my first and last love.