It's kind of ugly. Uneven.
22 is cute, and 24 is solid.
23 is awkwardly in the middle.
That's kind of where I'm at. Awkwardly in the middle. Uncertainty smirks at me like it knows so much more than I do, and I just wanna shake it and say "TELL ME EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY".
It was black and dark and I hated it. My chest was a prisoner of hurt and crying was normal.
It was new and scary and beautiful. Living within city streets that people dream of visiting, and people on double decker tour buses watched me as I walked to work.
My hair is white. And it feels like me.
I still eat cheeze-its and toast. I still fall asleep on the couch more than I do in my bed.
But vulnerability and I are friends now.
It's so freeing.
She made me feel beautiful without trying. People compliment my freckles and I don't wear eyeliner anymore.
I have people in my life now who care about me so deeply it almost hurts.
22 might have been a bit of a brat, but I wouldn't give back the pain for what I now have.
23. This is going to be interesting. A year ago jumping on a plane last minute had me freaking out. Now I say to heck with it.
Lets go.
Photo: Heather Moore
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