Since you left, I haven't once thought of tracing my fingernails across my skin. I started eating again, and tried to make things better with the people from which I disconnected.

But it didn't have to do with finding happiness again since you left. It wasn't about regaining confidence—and neither of those things have happened. I'm still every bit as sad as you remember me, if you remember me at all, but I found out that I didn't need to do any of the things I used to do to make myself hurt.

I've found a much better version of masochism.

I used to try and stop my mind from letting memories of us leak into my every day thoughts. I used to try to stop my heart from letting itself skip beats, and then slow back down once it remembered that those memories were just that, memories, and had no chances of recurring now that you didn't love me anymore. It hurt too much, and I was about to cover that hurting with the physical kind when it hit me.

I realized that the worst kind of pain I could experience was heartbreak.

So the next time the memories came, I allowed them to wash over me and let the stinging come, like saltwater crashing into an open wound. I didn't try to stop any of the worst thoughts that came to mind, and wouldn't dry any of the tears that wanted to fall. It burned far hotter than I had expected, but I embraced the embers as they touched me in the weakest places.

This has happened more times than I could count over the past few weeks. Like growing accustomed to the irritation in my skin where I had run my nails and slowly letting it grow to numbness, the impact of the memories has decreased slightly but steadily. I'm hoping that soon enough I can become used to the pain you've left me, that one day the flames will come but I won't be able to feel the burn. Maybe then, like the phoenix, I can reconstruct myself from the ash and embers and come back as if I had never been hurt before.

Quite a few years from now,
my daughter will be twelve.
And all her friends will start
to think about things like
first kisses and winter dances,
and I know she will ask me
what my first love had been like.
And when that happens,
I'm going to smile
(though it may be bittersweetly)
as I remember
driving around aimlessly with you
singing along to bad radio stations
and exploring our town
to find the best local coffeeshops.
I'll remember nights
in our high school arts building
when nobody else was around
looking at the newest pictures
the photography class pinned up,
and how gentle you were
whenever our lips met.
I'll remember how no matter
how close you held me,
I always wanted it to be closer.
I'll remember exactly the way
that your favorite scarf smelled,
and the safety I felt
when you'd pull me into your arms.

I don't know what else will happen
between today and the day my daughter asks,
but whenever it is,
the answer to that question
will always be you—
so I want you to know
I can't thank you enough
for a story that makes me glad
I let myself fall in love with you.

I know a girl
who leaves lunch early,
earbuds in one hand,
history book tucked into the other,
who gets reclusive in big groups
and would rather spend a Friday night
reading with a teacup nearby
than out at a party.
Not when she sings.
When Maddie sings,
she shines,
and all of her nerves
seem to melt away in the first verse
as she shows everyone
how amazing she is in her element.

I know a girl
with really long legs,
who still crawls up the stairs sometimes
and trips over her own feet
more often than anybody I know.
Not when she dances.
When India dances,
she's dazzling,
and her smile is the brightest onstage
and you can just tell
through her incredible grace and radiance
that this is what she's truly passionate about.

I know a girl
who loves meeting new people,
but gets really awkward
the second time you talk to her,
because after introductions
she has no idea what to talk about
and has never been skilled
at articulating what she wants to say.
Not when she writes.
When I write,
the words just spill from my pen
until before long
I've found a way to take my thoughts
and turn them into something I hope
is worth leaving behind for the world.

I know a girl
who isn't nearly as confident
as she should be.
She puts a lot of thought
into how people see her
and watches all her words
(not to mention her actions)
very carefully.
Not when she's with you.
When Sophia is with you,
her laughter is effortless.
She sets aside
everything she's worried about
and allows herself
to get lost in the moment,
eyes sparkling and focused
on nothing but you.

I know a boy
who has a lot of insecurities.
And he and I
have a ton of differences.
We don't get along
pretty much ever
and a lot of the time
he irritates me beyond belief.
He can be sorta immature
and more often than not
finds it really hard to stand up for himself.
It seems to me
like a lot of his life
he's been treated like a second choice
and started to believe that's what he is.
Not when he's with her.
When you're with Sophia,
don't ever think she doesn't care about you.
Because you're the boy
who saw her heart
as well as her beauty
and loved her for all of it
and couldn't go very long
without her in your life,
because even when you tried to ignore it,
you couldn't deny
that the connection you two had
was too strong to force apart.
So even though we've had our fights,
and even though my opinion doesn't matter at all in this,
I wanted you to know
that I absolutely support the two of you.
Because I've seen the way you look at her,
and it's the exact same way I look at him.
And when someone looks at somebody else
the way you look at her,
there is nothing in the world
that should keep them from each other
if what they want
is to be together.

I just got off the phone with you,
and I'd have to admit
that hearing the smile in your "hello"
was one of the best parts of my day.
And laughing with you, and
absorbing some of your carefree relief
took some of my own stress
off my shoulders.
And tomorrow I'll probably make jokes
about being in love with a college boy,
but also it is a little bittersweet—
because over the course of just a day
the fact that you're leaving in a few months
suddenly became very, very real.
But St. Louis isn't that far away,
and 320 miles could have been a lot more,
and even though I'd rather say it in person,
I won't get tired
of that same smile in your voice
when you pick up the phone—
and though it's better to say face-to-face,
the sincerity in every one of my I love you's
won't be fading with the distance.

I wrote it all out today:
all my biggest reasons,
using three words, eight letters in the tenth,
and it took a lot of caution
and almost not enough self-awareness
to not let my mouse slip
over the "send" button.
Because I don't think I'll tell you yet,
but I promise someday
that I'm going to say it:
I always breathe easiest
whenever you're around,
and nothing feels more natural
than your hands on my waist,
and I finally understand
what all of those cheesy songs
were actually talking about.
Mostly, though, soon I'll tell you
that even though I wouldn't exactly
know from experience,
I'm pretty sure this is what it feels like
to be in love with you.

I think the worst part is
being totally helpless,
and having to sit here
and wait patiently
like a good girl
while other people
get to decide for me
wether or not
it is acceptable
for me to love him.

As if they get to choose
how I feel
and how I get to act
on those feelings.
It's like they see themselves
as puppeteers
that can pull whichever strings they want
and demand me to follow suit,
without saying a single word
of any kind of protest at all.

And once upon a time,
I may have even danced for them,
but my cheeks have gotten tired
from painting on forced smiles,
and my heart is wearing thin
from all the tug-of-wars
between their limits
and my own freedom.

So I think that it's time
for this puppet show to end.
And I'm sorry,
but these strings are being cut–
so if there's an encore,
it'll finally be up to me.