A Novel Obsession

I told myself not to take it personally—if they truly didn’t know me, if I hadn’t let them in, then the person they were rejecting was definitely not-me.

I tend to drink too fast—eager to become the playful, chatty woman everyone thinks I am.

If given the choice between being in control and being in love, what do you choose?

Words, not children, can be manipulated and perfected and controlled, can someday perhaps even generate monumental, enduring ideas.

Writing down every worst-case scenario allows me to forgo their effects, to skip right over the pain. I will already be prepared, armored against hurt -- told you so, from my future self.

She hates group activities. (Glorified babysitting, she has scoffed.)

This is how I’ll always remember it, the feeling of finally being loved—only said to stop someone from leaving. Desperate, thoughtless, conditional.

Because I don’t trust anyone with my sad feelings or thoughts, Mother, and so it’s best to project lightness and exude indifference, to remain whole—