I wrote a poem titled “Autobiography” about four years ago- I wrote about how I was born prematurely, about how I worried which aspects of my parents I’d inherited. I wrote about how I dressed, my favorite colors, and my irrational fears. Other parts addressed some insecurities, my introversion, and my girlfriend (at the time). All of these things still hold truth to my character, they will forever be engrained in the fiber of my being. But I feel like that autobiography needs to be updated. That worked for me four years ago, but I was much, much younger then. I was young and hopeful, you could even say naive. I knew nothing of the pain that I would one day harbor in my heart, I knew nothing of the anger I was to be consumed with. There’s a part of me that wishes I could tell that younger version of me- maybe prepare him for what is to come. But even given the opportunity, I’m not sure that I could truly convey what to be prepared for. But we’ll chalk up my pain to character development, and hope that one day, when I revisit my autobiography again, I’ll look back on this chapter with a smile on my face and the scabs on my heart scarred over. I hope I continue to write my story and that I have people still willing to listen to my words.