I got my first kiss over with.
It's done.
It felt weird, we were just smushing our faces together- I didn't get how people did it for fun.
I felt anxious for a good couple days after we kissed- I felt tainted and embarrassed, as if everyone knew how pitiful the situation was.
I barely ate.
I remember when I told them about it, my friends said they were proud of me, which I thought was a really weird reaction to it. Especially since I didn't feel proud, I felt ashamed.

What has this boy done to me?
Life would be so much easier if I could just
forget he ever existed and go back to how things were.
I wouldn't have to worry about time zones
or having to get up early
or go to sleep late
or getting money to travel
or the lonely heartache I feel when we hang up.
I wouldn't have to worry about schedules
or the time it takes to mail a package there
or if we communicate well
or if I'm a good girlfriend
or the distant but ever-present doubts that this won't work out
and it's all a waste of time.
What has he done to me?
But then I look in his eyes...
and see his smile,
and hear his laugh.
What has he done to me?
Because suddenly none of those other things matter that much.
They all become bearable at the sound of his voice.
Everything is worth it at every "I love you," uttered,
at every "We can do this, we can make it."
sent at 2 in the morning.
All the troubles fade at the promise
of the future being better than today.
Being better than the hypothetical today in which
he, and all the pain, never existed.
I've come to truly believe this.
And I choose to endure the pain.
What has he done to me?

I want to be mysterious
I want to be the kind of girl
who leaves pieces of herself
with different people, all around the world
so that no one knows her full story
but it is all there
for some potential dedicated soul to discover.

I want to be a puzzle
that everyone thinks they have figured out
and all I do is smirk
because they have no idea
what they're talking about.

I want my life to seem effortless
my world falls gracefully into place around me
to the wonder of everyone else
but all according to my plan.


But that is not me.


I love fiercely, and with reckless abandon.
I tell the world my story in hopes that
someone will care enough about it
to stick around to watch the rest of it to play out.

I care. Deeply. About a lot of things.
So much so that it hurts.

I stop to watch squirrels munch on their dinner
and would much rather talk to a child about nothing at all
than have an adult conversation.

I am not mysterious. I am no puzzle. Nothing about me is effortless.
I am an open book with her heart on her sleeve
yearning and searching for true human connection
somewhere in this vast cold expanse.

But what's so wrong with that?

I hope when they tell you I'm pretty
you tell them about my kindness,
about how I donated my birthday money when I was ten
and refuse to listen to anyone's negative self-talk.

I hope when they tell you I'm pretty
you tell them about my passion,
about how I put my entire heart into everything I do
and my eyes light up when talking about something I love.

I hope when they tell you I'm pretty
you tell them about my intelligence,
about how I could discuss neurological models all day
and see each academic challenge as a puzzle to be solved.

I hope when they tell you I'm pretty
you tell them how perfect we are for each other,
about how we both think that morning is when you wake up, regardless of time,
and fully accept each other for who we are.

I hope when they tell you I'm pretty
you tell them, "Oh, but she is so much more."

That sweatshirt.
He had stolen it from me
to keep himself warm
on those cold summer nights.
He gave it its own unique smell.
At the time it smelled safe, like I was home, like happiness,
like him.
But now it is fall.
I put that sweatshirt on this morning,
and now that same scent just makes me feel forgotten.
And like my sweatshirt
needs a wash.