I feel like I came out the other side changed.
Like, who I was then was something much more clearly defined; like if someone would’ve asked me, the answer would’ve been easy, something flat, with one syllable — something not so easily misunderstood.
I am nebulous. My lines bleed together, like my insides are some sort of watercolour painting, instead of muscle, and blood, and bone. I keep trying to mean it. I keep trying to carve myself out of it; want to take back some of that old certainty, when I could look in a mirror and say my name and know what it meant.
Some of my softer parts have grown hard.
Some of my harder parts have grown soft.
I used to be the girl who waited — the one who loved too much — who felt too much; a walking wound, spilling red on everything. I wanted so bad. I got hurt so bad.
Certain things inside of me went dark,
Sometimes I even believe it; my coldness.
I straddle this strange fence I must have put up myself.
And somewhere, on the cusp of night becoming early morning, I feel absolutely nothing at all.