Writing

It’s a skull-shaped pot of wilted flowers on the porch waiting for the tide to rise, pick it up, and take it away to Dreamland, where it belongs.

"Fun is overrated. 

You just always want to make sure

Everyone's happy.

In fact, 

If anything,

You should be prettier. 

Like in life."

I didn't want to be prettier. 

before he'd left

i could find things

because i knew 

i wanted it to be different for me

you talked too much

or not enough

you let yourself go

or your makeup looked too harsh 

I wished I knew all the right things to say. 

Or maybe my wish was bigger than that.

I wanted to always be enough.

***

"I'm fine. I don't know what's wrong with me."

You know, sometimes I have these moments. Moments where I snap out of the rubber band ball of my own mind, and it hits me. The profuse sentiment of sonder is inhaled into my nostrils, like the salty aroma of a beach.

I stayed up until midnight with my brother

in that horrible hotel room in North Carolina.

(I say horrible because I hate going down south

hate the Trump bobblehead in my nonny and poppy's house