Things turn out for us
I wrote a letter to my 20 year old self that started with
“things turn out for us.”
what I should’ve said,
meant to say,
Is that things turning out for us looks different than we thought.
My hair falls out in chunks,
I cry on the airport tram,
& nostalgia can feel like a noose.
When someone tells me they love me,
I believe them.
I have no emptiness to be filled,
but I still eat layers of shame on toast and
Take spoonfuls of humiliation with tea.
I let it all catch up to me.
because to heal is to refuse disassociation & allow destruction, to try on memories for size instead of watching them like film reels.
I no longer believe I am a reaction.
I built a life of enough, one that silently closed the space between self and image, one that renamed exposure “vulnerability” — “openness”— “growth” and called it good. They say the only way out is through, but i haven’t quite found the willingness to arrive yet. I’m staring straight into the ragged heart of it. I still live there, but one day I’ll leave with borrowed courage I have no plans to give back.