Years

Elementary School 

6 years

My questions are annoyingly insistent, consistent. The way the bathroom tiles pop out of the floor in a pattern mimicking Tetris in reverse before I had ever played Tetris, my mom yelled at me when she realized the tiles bordering the bathtub were loose yet in place. I would always much rather wear my jeans than pants with flowers on them. My dad taught me how to ride a bike, and he taught my brother, and my younger cousin, and my older cousin, always teaching. Righty tighty, lefty loosey, here, try the real kind of sushi. I didn’t write in the glittery diary because I knew Kyle would find it but almost one-hundred percent of my thoughts made it out of my mouth so it didn't matter. I’d hold my hand against the car speaker, bmmm bmmm bm bm, the vibrations hurting my knuckles but not enough to pull away. 

Middle School 

3 years

My hair is too short and I hate it and I hate wearing jeans and I hate my bed comforter and I hate waking up in the morning and I hate Emily J and I hate the grocery store and I hate you. My town is lovely and charming and makes me nauseous. There are too many unworn clothes in my closet. 

High School 

4 years

My car is parked on top of the indentation in the driveway, my toddler-sized hand pressed into the now-dry cement, my dad moves the car, asks about the smell and I pretend I am as puzzled as an innocent suspect. Prom themes are stupid— Vegas Casino is a stupid-ass prom theme— having a theme surrounding drinking, smoking, gambling, and having sex at a Catholic High School is really fucking stupid. Everyone is very concerned about the letters and numbers on transcripts: little letters and numb numbers. My thoughts don’t seem to escape my lips as consistently anymore, maybe I grew a filter.

College  

4 years

We miss you, you should visit home more often. At this point, my own life feels like a dream that I am unsure whether or not truly happened, a hazy collage in my mind. What do I hang up where my car keys used to be because nothing fits there and I miss driving, leaving. Honestly, who can you trust, who can I trust—not tequila.