I've always wanted to be quotable.

When studying becomes too difficult, work on your Halloween costume instead.

A Million Divergences

If that night in fifth grade had gone as planned... If I hadn't fallen right there... If you hadn't opened your eyes and saved us... If God hadn't taken my hand... If I had slipped from your grasp... If it had been a few inches closer...

Of these million possible paths, these million possible divergences, I've found myself here, now. If that's not a miracle, what is?

Internal Wars

Does it ever feel like every fiber of your being is straining to separate from every other piece of you? Does it ever feel like your heart is an inconsolable child, upset for no reason, and your brain the helpless adult trying to explain there's nothing to fear? Does it ever feel like the world is too big, too busy, too grand for someone like you? Like there's no time for you? No space for you? Does it ever feel like you could have done so much more for every person that's passed through your life? Could you be doing more right now? Who would let you? Does it ever feel like you've failed somehow?

Yes. More often than not.

Presidential "Debates"

All I have to say is that I'm sincerely disappointed this is the first presidential election in which I'm of voting age.

Note to self: Be less concerned with losing.

The Broken Pieces

And I want to hear about the broken pieces. I want to know, not to fix you, but to understand. I want to understand how you put yourself back together. Because not everything is about making it right again. After all, what even would be "right" about things that went so wrong? Maybe it's recognizing that perhaps things will never be right again. Maybe you don't even want to be fixed if it were possible, and that's okay. But I want to know how to carry on with missing pieces and broken parts. I always found a beauty in kintsugi, in history, in weakness, in strength.

I want to read the chapters of your story that you finished before we met.

Heartbreak

Disclaimer: Yes, I am very much so writing this to avoid studying. But also to lighten my heart, filled with too many thoughts for me to focus at all. 

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How many stories do I have? How many stories do you want to hear?

Should I tell you about the evenings I spent in the bathroom or garage? The late nights trying to fit in? All the books I read, hoping that one would speak to me, that I could look at it and say, "Hey, there she is, there I am."

Should I tell you about how none of that worked?

Maybe you want to hear more about the sleepless nights, tormented thoughts, tear-stained pillows and journals and memories and conversations and lives.

But maybe you don't really care. Maybe all of this just serves to make you feel special. Maybe the secrets that I share are stored in a trunk, gathering dust, something that reminds you you can't throw it away, but it doesn't really mean anything either. Maybe I just open up to be closed off again.

Maybe every time I let someone in, they take a little piece of me with them when they leave. Like a bed and breakfast with a library that dwindles over time. Maybe the years I spend in different places capture a piece of my soul that I can never get back.

Maybe that's why I always feel like something's missing. Like things could be better. Like I'm always wishing I were somewhere not here, not now, not who I am.

But I'll be brought to where I need to be, with pieces of my heart and scraps of my soul leaving a breadcrumb trail through the forest back to where I started.

And maybe I feel bad about things I shouldn't.

I would gladly lose myself to gain a piece of you.

Yours

I've always wanted to be strong, but every time I look, I'm just weak. I've been broken down and battered, and they said scars made you strong, but what happens if wounds never heal? They said you're strong if you can stand back up, but what if the only reason I get up is because I'm afraid of staying down? I let others in more than I want, and less than I should. Life's beautiful, and broken, and based on nothing but whispers of truth in the night and the hope of someone to catch your tears.

I've never been my own; every piece of me belongs to someone else. Pieces of my heart and soul fly out and attach themselves to others. The countless hours of conversation, of friendship and love. I've never thought my life was worth much, but it's a story of all of the effort that others have put into me, and it would be a waste to throw it away.

The Sands of Mine

I look back and remember the time I asked you
What this meant for us
But
Neither of us knew.

We stayed up until 5am once,
Talking about God and faith and
Not knowing how deeply
We would hurt one another.

I never meant to hurt you.

"I miss reading about myself,"
You said.
And I miss writing about you, but
I really just miss you.

And at one point,
I would have loved to own the moon.
But all I really want now is to know
Someone cares.

More

Words have meaning. And you have a way with words that's beautiful, but also dangerous.

I'm an open book to a point, for anyone who takes time to read. Beyond that... Well, beyond that, it's anyone's guess what will happen.