on being twenty-five & not a streamer.

It’s hard to write this because I don’t really want to, but there is a deep, high-pitched voice in the back of my head that tells me I need to.

There is nothing more unreliable than memory, and nothing more valuable. We are a compilation of stories constantly crafted and rewritten by the second. Walking, unstable machines plagued with the consequences of emotion.

Every person has multiple versions of themselves: our own personalities are split into multiple directors commanding the narratives of who we actually are, who we want to be, and who we believe we are.

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unforgettable

Some men are going to look at you and wonder about the others before him. Some people will look at you and summarize the entirety of who you are to the people who’ve touched you, kissed you, fucked you.

I grew up surrounded with the idea that the more of me I shared, the less of me there was left. That I was some kind of pie or cake or confectionary made for consumption. A math problem about how many pieces I could be cut into before there was nothing.

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This year I don’t want a long list of superficial goals. Idealistic thoughts about having things that don’t really matter or a body I’ve been told to need. This year I want to commit to being good to my soul. To curate happiness in my bones.

I don’t want anything more than to journey to understand that I am all I will ever need.

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To the person I loved last.

My brother asks me when it happened. When I knew.

It was the first night without you, after the first night with you.

It was when you fell asleep texting me, and I couldn’t help but write you a 6 paragraph monologue of all the the things I adored about you. Of all the things I couldn’t handle you not hearing.

Everyone has a predisposition for an art; everyone’s heart becomes geared towards a medium they scribe their remaining emotions in.

The second I wrote for you; the second I had a need to write for you–was the second I knew the decision to stay, the want to be yours, was irrevocable.

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