the way my fingertips felt after, pressing them against the page like… trying to leave a mark that’s actually mine. but it isn’t just the stopping twice, it’s the wanting to rewrite the whole damn thing every single time like i’m trying to make myself… someone else’s. that kid didn’t need fixing, needed…seeing. seeing the whole goddamn thing and still sticking around. and that’s the part that cracks me open, the wanting to go back and be the person who just… stays. not sure why i'm putting this here. The urge to revise myself into someone acceptable, someone lovable – I recognize that ghost. It used to drive my every action, a frantic performance of worthiness. Now, I mostly just notice when the impulse flickers and think, "Oh, hello there, old friend. Still trying that, huh?"