Author: Jenny

on being twenty-five & not a streamer.

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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

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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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I think I’m out of tears.

I think today is going to be different.

I think I’m tired of being unhappy.

Today’s the first day I found someone else attractive since I met you. Today’s the first day I responded to text message who wasn’t you, but made me smile like you used to.

This is how I know it’s ending.

When I used to be yours–nobody could compare. Now it’s morbid and sick and you feel dead in my heart.

Today’s the first day I didn’t check my phone in hopes of you.

This is how I know it’s over.

This morning was the first time I looked at Toronto apartments–and realized I could never be with someone who didn’t want me in the same way.

I think I’m done, and it’s remarkably refreshing.

In my entire life all I’ve ever been is my heart. Now you’ve left a gaping hole in it and I can’t help but fall apart.

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I’m sad. I’m lonely. I’m hurting. I’m numb.

We spent two weeks infatuated with each other. Do you remember? Unable to put down our phones; to not be touching or apart or without.

You took an Uber from your work to me, just for fifteen minutes and a kiss. I told you I was sad, and found you outside with a car waiting. I couldn’t stand the thought of ending the day with you sad.

We broke up for the first time the end of that week. I told you I was too scared, because I knew I would love you too much.

That was the first weekend we spent without each other.

This is the second.

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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.

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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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