You came to me at an interesting time in my life.
You came to me when I chopped my hair into the style they call “butch.”
You met me when I moved out of my parents house and began paying bills and buying
my own cold medication.
You came to me when summer turned to winter, bypassing the fall, and I bypassed the
transitional stages of adolescence straight into adulthood.
You met me when I was faced with the decision of whether or not I would stand up, or
stay face down.
You met me many nights, when I sat alone with the pills and contemplated the dosage
that I’d need to either feel okay or to feel nothing at all.
You were there every time I put the pills away and went to bed instead.
You’re still one of my closest companions.

Every day it seems you come to me and say “Hey butch. Things will get better, including
your awful haircut.”