• kay-anne

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.


But anymore,

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.

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