Like A Blinking Cursor On

This Was Always The Problem With My Mother And Me, I Suddenly Realized. There Were So Many Things We Thought We Agreed On, But Anythign Can Have Two Meanings. Like Sides Of A Coin, It Just Matters How It Falls.

The Truth Was I Knew, After All Those Flat January Days, That I Deserved Better. I Deserved I Love Yous And Kiwi Fruits And Warriors Coming To My Door, Besotted With Love. I Deserved Pictures Of My Face In A Thousand Expressions, And The Warmth Of A Baby's Kick Beneath My Hand. I Deserved To Grow, And To Change, To Become All The Girls I Could Be Over The Course Of My Life, Each One Better Than The Last.

I Love Ya, And It's Been A Really Good Fit For Me. But At Some Point, I Would Like To Try Something Else: A Collection Of Short Stories, Or Writing About Something Other Than High School. A Lot Has Happened To Me Since I Was Eighteen.

What You Need, What You Deserve, Is A Guy Who Adores You For What You Are. Who Doesn't See You As A Project, But A Prize. You Know?

I Wondered Which Was Harder, In The End. The Act Of Telling, Or Who You Told It To. Or Maybe If, When You Finally Got It Out, The Story Was Really All That Mattered.