End

This is the end... of my time writing here.

_______________________________________

I refuse

To be subject to the forces of habit

To be pulled back in like the tide

To give up like some weak-willed wuss

Or to be bullied into saying what I should say

Because regardless of what vocabulary I have

What I choose to say is what is going on in my head

And when I say it

It means

Who I am.

And sometimes you need that period

At the end of a sentence

For finality

Because sometimes leaving it too open ended

Leaves too much room for misinterpretation

This is something that needs to be understood clearly:

.

I've felt every way possible about this

There's not an option I haven't tested

Not a rocket I haven't seen come crashing down

But still nothing to show for it

Not much has changed and I wish it would

Ten months ago I was wishing myself out of a rut

Now I'm in it

A new one

And I want out again

So I can discover a new rut

To get caught in

Lost in

Forgotten

And re-found

Not just a rebound

Feeling like I should reread this

To see how it sounds

Feeling awkward 'cause somethings rhyme

And others just plain don't

As if looking over what I've already touched on

Was gonna help me discover what my next subject is

Sometimes you gotta ignore where you've been

And accept you're going someplace entirely different

So I dare myself to shut it out

And just say whatever non-related bull that comes forth

And I dare myself to cope with a mix

Of the old

And the new

Because it is the cowards who try to define

Spaces of time

And box people into them too

And box emotions

And memories

Commitments

Am I capable of letting this happen?

I'm ashamed of my reoccurring patterns

Like I said

I've tried everything

The worst part is the dependency

Which I'm showing right now

This horrible display of dysfunctionality

Apparently that's not a word

It should be.

That is me.

RESTART

Her

I used to ride the train home from Kindergarten at the same hour that the high schoolers took the 1 train back uptown. I was about... four feet, clinging to a pole and looking up at giants. There was a girl in skinny jeans and bright white Nikes. She had the most perfect curly hair that was always perfectly tousled and was wearing gold hoops, and a backpack thrown over her arm. The subway car would be packed in tight, so that everything was dark at my height - people's legs and bags. So I would just look up at her, with the perfect hair and the perfect look, surrounded by her girlfriends who were laughing, and she was laughing too, a big beautiful smile, with gum tucked in the back. And in front of her was some guy leaning against the subway door, flirting with her and she just kept laughing back. And these people were in some realm of superiority, which seemed like perfection, and where everyone should land in by the time they were teenagers. At that age, being a teenager, was one notch below a deity. It was a place I dreamed of, when I would be at the peak of life and freedom and identity. And beyond that, when I had my identity, I knew exactly who I would be. I wanted to be her.