Ten years later and I still think the act of having a first love did more harm than good.

I have always felt I was completely alone. Your fervor washes over me and seeps into my pores. A one way door with no option for “other”. I hope that when you look at me you can feel my pulse behind the words I can’t say.

When I feel angry with myself I try to pull in some invisible barrier that holds it all down. I stretch my fingers and flail my arms. I cry into my head and hope that someone hears me.

When it’s dark I think about who I would be if I was born and raised in other countries. How my style and personality would be affected. It’s 2am and I have 50 images of myself rotating behind my eyelids. And it makes me feel big.