this thing I’ve been doing, where I keep letting myself believe that I am hopelessly insecure and that makes me repulsive, and this is written in stone – this isn’t helpful.

the part of me that believes this story isn’t often welcome at the table, because the rest of me doesn’t like them. but also, “there’s some powerful medicine hidden in that pain.”

maybe it’s difficult for the people around me who (a) love me and want to see me feel safe on the inside of my own head and (b) sometimes look at me and wonder if they’re seeing me or if they’re seeing a reflection of themselves, because sometimes – not all the time, because that doesn’t make sense, but once in a while, yeah – they’re not sure if they can tell the difference.

so I don’t know if this story that I tell myself is ever going to go away, or if it’s real or not real, or if it has to be. stories persist in being loud.

but I do know I can write, and that’s something. I’ve been told my eyes are pretty.

It’s the small things.