i have this bad habit. a game i play with only myself. i play it absently in the back of my mind like a voicemail: “is that me? in another life, is that me?”
is that me? she’s beautiful after her first child. married her high school love. runs a lot. lost the weight easy, like taking a butter wrapper off. full time job she holds down with no issue; best friend to many. easily balancing items as if all of life is weightless.
is that me? she’s fashionable. cute vintage dress and broad rimmed hat. blinking her bright eyes at a phd candidate as they sit under the awning to avoid the rain. so delicate her fingers look wrapped around a mug of coffee. so wonderful the arch of her brows while she is laughing.
is that me? in another life, where i was not cut out of the wrong cloth and made incorrectly, is that me? where i did not allow myself to wallow, where i picked myself up faster, where i didn’t let the darkness get me - is that me?
is that me? she smiles over her award. has been writing just as long as me. she says of course it was hard but the work was worth doing. i go home and i read my own work until the words turn into worms and gobble up my breathing.
is that me? she mentions she had a rough childhood but got the help she needed and got medicated and found her way out of it by nineteen. she has almost the same tattoo i do, but hers is better done.
is that me? when she dances, doesn’t she do it so easily. when she eats, it’s done freely. when she loves, god.
for her sake, i hope it’s openly.
dailybridgerton
romaincrisis
gummygunk
origamiaround
vaporwave
