february 15, 2021.

i haven’t written here in years. i can’t begin to sum up how life has changed since then.

and how in so many intimate ways, it hasn’t.

i live in wyoming now. until this week, it’s been an unsettlingly mild winter here. i’m sitting on my purple velvet couch with a fireplace playing on the tv and spotify going on my little retro-looking boom box in the bedroom. i have peppermint tea and luxurious pajamas. it’s -14ºf outside with a feels-like temp of -35. wyoming is so rugged and brutal, and i connect with its bitter rawness somewhere deep. i don’t know if this is my forever-home, but i tell everybody it is.

for the last seven years, i’ve felt so full of things to say that it all just jams the drain and nothing gets out. and over and over, i think i convey myself clearly, and learn that i haven’t. so i took a chance with that twice in the last two weeks. i got the words out. a friend told me, “good job on communicating and opening up!!!” because he knew how hard and conflicting it was for me. but my body reacted with shivering and sobbing both times from the unfamiliarity of being so forthright and vulnerable. people who have known me for years don’t know just how nostalgic, sentimental, and downright mushy i am. so i showed everybody this week by sharing a lot of sappy and romantic and poetic posts i had saved on instagram. i used valentine’s day as an excuse to do it; i could go back to keeping that side secreted away. i don’t think i’m supposed to.

i have fought everything. i fought myself. i ran

until i ran out of run.

now i’m standing here.


for what happens next.


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