One. My mother is fond of telling the story of how when my second cousin was in the hospital with leukemia she would always find me sitting with a boy who was horribly ugly, and would soon die from premature aging. She knew if she followed the around of the music that he played she would find me beside him on the piano bench.
It is very hard sometimes I think, for people to see what’s going on inside of people. I forget too often that sometimes the outside is all people notice.
Two. My mom calls me chicken. Well, she calls me Chicken when she calls, which isn’t often but maybe we both like it that way.
Three. On the street today a man asked me what colour my hair was.
Which is odd, mostly because the hue is so vibrantly red that I can’t imagine it inspiring confusion. I said it was red.
He said no, it was gorgeous.
I want to know where men learn these things. How they’re taught to engage with strange women they’ve never met.
Four. I’m making clothes again. All halfheartedness behind me, I’m doing what I love and loving to do it.
Five. One of my oldest friends told me this week that he could see me hurting, and when I read those words over I nearly broke down in public. I’m always hurting, there’s a low strumming resonating somewhere inside of me. I always think im concealing it. Maybe its been radiating off me. I’m doing a hard reset: stopping my meds for a while to see if that will help. It hasn’t.
Six. Have you noticed Ive never mentioned my grandmother to you? Or my sister? You’re at arms length. You hurt me. You keep hurting me. Somewhere in me I know I’ll see you with someone new. We all know what to say when we don’t want to sound ugly. You were lying. I had hoped you would be less cowardly. I wanted you to say it.