this


My first year in high school was my last year in high school and I swear on my life it wasn’t my fault that I was the epitome of unreadable literature. I was raised like a weed in a rose  garden, I was taught to be the stone which will not erode, I was trained to stand against a hurricane without fear or concerns for my own safety. 
My first year in college was not my last but I fought the system the whole time. I was a spark plug in a water pump, I was a boyfriend in a lesbian marriage, I was a cup of coffee inside a box of frozen pizza. I argued my point of view and my professors would tell me, this won’t help you, and I replied, how small can I make my thoughts, how far from my home can I go, how am I supposed to create a new version of myself that looks like everyone that has never been me?
My first year of marriage was a boy begging for Turkish delight in Narnia, I promised what I could not deliver and I gave what I didn’t have. She was a mystery in her surrender and I cowered in corners, afraid of my own ferocity. 

We found our way, eventually. 
My first year as a writer was wordless. 
I am here and I will be here. 
This life has no meaning.