I talk to dad about aliens.
I talk to my co-worker about her cancer diagnosis.
I talk to mom about love.
I talk to my brother about none of the above.
I talk to myself about failure.
I try to lose myself in nature.
Friendships get stranger and stranger.
I search for meaning.
I look for signs.
More than anything,
I just feel behind.
-S.
I cut my hair.
I nair my legs.
No one likes a girl that begs.
I clean out my closet.
I eat more eggs.
No one likes a girl that begs.
I keep myself busy,
I increase my progress by a few pegs.
No one likes a girl that begs.
-S.
We had some laughs,
didn’t we?
Thick as thieves,
weren’t we?
We could try again,
couldn’t we?
What am I supposed to do now?
What about me?
–S.
Odd years have always been my favorite.
At 3o, you loved me.
At 31, you left me.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
–S.
All I really know is that we were on the phone and he told me that he wanted to tell me a story.
I was happy because I knew in that moment that he could have chosen to be on the phone with anyone, but he chose me.
And there I am listening to a story about a man with only one thumb.
But he is laughing and I am not.
He says, ‘I guess you just had to be there.’
It’s not that. I am not laughing because a big part of me is sad. I’m sad because I am thinking and preparing for a moment a million moments from now – when he doesn’t tell me these stories.
–S.
The Messy Middle 🖤 