Dear me,
Fuck you.
I said it out loud, standing in front of my bathroom mirror with my greasy hair, my
oversized tee,
barefoot, bare heart.
Fuck you.
Fuck you.
The anger just came out.
I was facing the person who got me here.
And the only one who can get me out.
Myself.
I exhale.
There is no relief.
Only more anger.
Fuck you for never standing up for me.
Fuck you for always picking everyone else.
What have you been loyal to, except the same comfortable patterns that never
belonged to me?
And fuck you for trying to fit where you so clearly don't.
Here?Where is here?
I don't even know.
This apartment?
This room?
This state?
This life?
And where is the destination?
Because I'll be damned if I know.
I exhale again.
Fragments of my past keep flashing through my head.
I don't want to escape them anymore.
I want to run straight through them.
And just be.
Dear me,
I want to love you.
But for now...
Fuck you.
I'd be lying if I said I don't understand.Loneliness is the worst and the best place to be. It either dilutes you into the world if
you don't know what to do with it, or forces you to build one of your own.
I never knew how to unfollow the world.
I think I tried to do both.
And ended up with neither.
Outside is dark.
I walk to my bed with every light on.
Every light is on.
Every answer is off.
The kind of light that shows everything.
Especially the things you usually avoid seeing.
And there she is.
The woman somewhere between
I don't know where I want to be
and
I know it's definitely not here.
I turn off the lights and lie on the bed.
One question sits inside me.
Do I find myself?Or erase myself?
I live inside the woman I am becoming.
I am the foundation of her, just like the child before me was the foundation of me.
Is this really my story?
I reach for my phone.
The Calendar.
15 December 2026.
One year.
One reservation.
One table.
One chair.
One woman.
Me.
And whatever version of us shows up...
It's a date.
I don't know exactly what will happen between now and then.
It's a crossroads of becoming without a clear destination.
Only a decision.
And I know something has to happen.The investment is the only agreed thing.
My life.
And the woman who sits at that table will live it.
I am writing this because I need proof.
Proof that when tomorrow comes and I am tempted to adapt again, there will be
something waiting to remind me:
Don't.
This letter's only job is one loud scream.
Don't stop.
Fifty-two Sundays from today will be my inheritance.
No taxes.
One hundred percent return on investment.
No luggage.
No spectators.
Just me.
0 comments