Conversation heart confessional

There is something cathartic about talking into nothingness. Into something that always gives you an answer, unsatisfactory as it may be.

At school, we talk in dialects: sarcasm, dramatics, good student, jokes, and suspiciously angsty profundities. There are some days when I say so much of everything else that I forget my own mother tongue. 

At first, when we texted, I could only hear everything in your voice. It made me laugh. Texting dialect is relatively monotonous-- it was strange to hear someone so lively condensed in such a way. 

When you give someone a piece of you, it’s scary. But you feel light after. Some people like taking it, weighing it in an open palm as if determining worth. Some people run away, and leave you to melt down the shattered pieces and start again. Some people tuck it into themselves, and you never quite know if they mean to make a run out the automatic sliding door or if they are cradling it in the only way they know how.

Lots of people like to call the pieces hearts. But to me, that sounds like show & tell on the playground, when you get a new toy and everyone wants to touch it, or a Valentine's day box of candy hearts. LOVE ME, TEXT ME, SOUL MATE, YOU ROCK. 


I’ve been lucky in my life to have and meet people who understand the mechanics of me-- they are hard to come by. Who knows where to put me even when I don’t know what to do with my hands. 

And people change. Breaking, I’ve found, is inevitable. We weather in the wind, and rain, and sun until we wither away into sediment. 

I forgot you were real. A part of me hopes I’ll be able to confess this to you someday, and a part of me hopes I never do. It’s funny how your favorite parts of the day can become your most dreaded. There are worse things than being strangers.

The magic eight ball says to ask again later. I don’t think I have the courage to do so. 



YWP Alumni

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