A Year to Myself

I rang in the new year sitting upright in the middle of my full-sized, rented mattress, drinking Gatorade and reading shitty Buzzfeed articles. No party, no resolutions, no midnight kiss. Same as always.

I’m no stranger to being alone, and solidarity doesn’t worry me too much these days. Even if I don’t always like myself, it’s usually still better than being around others – namely, people who don’t click. I would rather have the time to myself to reflect or to create or to break down. My company is quiet and only lightly marked; sometimes I barely even notice myself in the room.

But I want to. I want to feel my presence, to know it immediately when I wake up each morning. I’m tired of looking for my spirit like its a ghost outside of my body.

When I lost you and subsequently lost me, I didn’t flinch when the world turned dark. I should have. Stars burned out all around us and I couldn’t bring myself to watch them fall. But I should have. And maybe I should have taken six shots of whiskey and kissed my reflection in the mirror last night.

It’s nonsense, I know. Everything is since you cracked me open. But now I’m covered in half-rotten tape, kept in pitch black darkness and barely staying in one piece. I’ve gotta rediscover me somehow.


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