I always get complimented on my writing. It's not just for the creative pieces or the legal memos that I write day after day. Although I suppose the praise for that never hurts.

No. The compliments are always about the writings I do at my most vulnerable. Beyond the creative mind or even my analytical one.

It's about the writings from my soul. Cliche? Maybe. But it's true.

It'll be the handwritten letters I write in my most contemplative mornings, the rarest of days that I wake up early. Or the late night texts from when I lay down for bed, my cheeks aching from laughing all night with my friends.

It is only then, that I truly write how I feel.

I tell my friends how grateful I am for them to even exist. For them to be in my life. I write of their greatest accomplishments. Especially the ones they never see. How beautiful their souls are or how kind their eyes can be. The compliments flow easy and I somehow never have to write a lie.

And though I write and I write, no one ever seems to write for me.

'Oh, but I'm not good with words like that!'

'You have such a wonderful way with words. Nothing I say could compare!'

It seems that all those in my life are lacking in this particular skill.

Or perhaps I'm not worth writing for.

Regardless, I keep writing. Waiting for the moment in which the words will come together for those I love and maybe someday I too shall receive a letter.

I’m angry with you. I know I haven’t earned that right but this anger bubbles and steams within me anyways. I know I haven’t earned that right because I understand why you did it and yet it makes me angrier because things weren’t meant to be like this.

And if you were here, I would show you my anger. Maybe I’d yell. Maybe I’d stomp my feet like a kid. Maybe we’d argue or fight. At least the breaking of our friendship would mean the life within you was here to stay.

But I’m here and you’re so far away my lungs would collapse before you heard my cries. So I choke down my sobs and lay on this couch in this lonely home that echoes of your absence.

I wish I could fix it all. If I could give you a gift that would make you forget the pain for even a second. That would make you see the small things do matter. That I can’t give you the world but I can give you a million smaller moments that I would love to share with you now and forever. Moments that would transcend the space and time that would inevitably force us apart.

But the unknown of your future has brought greater distance than I had planned for.

And as I sit here, all I can think of is the emptiness of these walls without your larger-than-life personality. Even my anger is a pathetic flicker in this sudden realization and all I can say is please just come home.

There's a girl on the train. She sits alone, typing on her computer. Her glasses slip a little too low on her nose and her hair rests in two mismatched braids-- one much bigger than the other.

Yet, she types.

Maybe you think she's cute. Your mind plays fantasies of dates with a random stranger as you inevitably hit boredom on the seven-hour train ride.

Your eyes follow her hands as they dance around the keyboard. Stroke by stroke, making her keys click.

The seat next to her is gapingly empty and, for a moment, you contemplate sitting next to her, starting out what could be comparable to the events of a rom-com.

But you don't.

She stays a girl on the train, open to the fantasies of your mind. A simple existence, avoiding the complexities of life.

mother does not care for imperfections

she reminds me as i bring the evening tea

mother does not care for imperfections

her face says it all as i get a C

mother does not care for imperfections

her words say as i miss a step (or maybe three)

mother does not care for imperfections

im sorry for second in the spelling bee

mother does not care for imperfections

maybe its something in my brain chemistry

mother does not care for imperfections

her hug is cold as i get my degree

mother does not care for imperfections

but what if that imperfection is me

you're my favorite notification.

i can't explain the way my heart skips a beat every time my phone buzzes or the excitement that rushes through me when my laptop gives me the plink of a discord notification.

if it's not you, the anticipation is met by immediate disappointment before the comforting knowledge that you'll be back online again. i would sit my life away next to my phone, counting the seconds between your texts if life's demands wouldn't pull me away.

i'll hang on to every word and emoji that i can get even as the the space between the time stamps of our messages gets bigger than the distance between us. i would let myself be consumed in that silence all just to hear another little plink again at 4 a.m..

As she stared off the bridge, she couldn't help but think how everything would be easier with just one step.

One step. That's all it took.

The courage, however, was severely lacking.

So pulling out her phone, she called the first number she could think of.

And it rang. One, two, three times... No answer.

Screw it.

Tapping another contact.

One... two... three... still no reply.

She sighed, scrolling till she reached the one person she knew would have to pick up.

"Hey."

The voice is warm and comforting. The tingle of a smile graced her lips.

"Hey. I just saw your text."

She winces a little at the lie. She'd seen the text hours ago. In fact, she'd seen it the second it came through. But there was something special about ignoring a text just as you received it that emulated the feeling of death so that you wouldn't have to reply. Mostly so that she could pretend, just for a moment, that she didn't exist.

"That's okay." His voice was calm, reassuring even. She closed her eyes to imagine what he must look like at this moment. It was getting late so he was probably already in a t-shirt, his hoodie discarded somewhere behind the rowing machine in his dorm. She could already imagine him laying on his futon, phone in hand, a half-finished youtube video on pause next to him.

A sigh escaped her lips as she remembered the comfort of just meeting him there every night. She could turn around, walk off the bridge, and right back into the safety of his arms.

The water crashed below the bridge and her attention returned to the gentle curve of the river's current, which had been suddenly interrupted by the splashing of ducks.

"Where are you?"

"I'm just on a walk." It wasn't a complete let but yet they both knew the severity of what she'd just said.

"Right now?" he asked. It was almost four in the morning and she knew that he was already catching on.

"It's going to be okay." She whispered.

"Hey, no, where are you?"

She could hear him scrambling and the sound of jingling that he assumed was his keys.

She didn't even bother to hang up. Gaze steady, she stared down at the sinking weight of the water.

She sighed, smiled, and stepped.

I’d always thought the most difficult pain was one that was physical. Stab me with a knife but you still won’t shatter my resolve.

But in one instant, with one sentence, I feel myself shatter. Disbelief rolling into shock into burning hot anger.

But as quickly as the anger comes, I find myself breaking, coming apart at the small cracks you just whipped into me. You reach to comfort me and I let you. I let you because it can’t be true. You can’t lie to me and make me out to be a villain when you’re the one cowardly enough to hide.

And that’s how we are--- me curled in a ball and you wrapping me in a hug--- when I finally get the strength to utter two words.

Get out.

It’s not my apartment. I have no authority here. But something in you understands that you’ve broken something that can’t be fixed.

So you’re gone, slamming the door so hard I swear I hear it splinter or maybe that’s me, still trembling in shock and alone.

Except for him. He’s not like you. He’s honestly nothing like the others. We say we’re friends but something lingers under the surface of his eyes that reminds me we could be more. But it’s his honesty that you will never be able to top.

He’s blunt and crude but at least he’s true. His lies will never hurt me because they do not exist. He doesn’t hold me like you do. He doesn’t comfort me in the slighest.

He’s cold and harsh but his words are pure.

And honestly I prefer it to your comforting lies.

Why do we breathe?

No really.

Why?

If you asked me, I'd probably hide the thoughts away because they're too morbid to say out loud.

But you're not asking and I'm writing.

I think we breathe so that the absence of breathing can hurt all the more. So that our chests can burn in want of more. So that our eyes can tear up before fading into darkness. So that our hearts can pump faster before finally taking a rest from the treadmill of life.

We breathe so that when we don't, we understand it's time. But then, why so I understand so early? Why does my heart continue to beat? Why do my eyes tear up despite the shine that has faded so long ago? Why does my chest tighten in thought of living instead of thought of not?

I suppose then there is no why. There just is.

And so, we breathe.

Breathe till, breath by breath, we don't.

I’m sorry mom.

It’s the first thought that passes through my head as I stare into the mirror. Lifting the scissors to the edge my hair, I cut it lightly. The satisfying little snip of the blades overrides the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Shaking almost, I stare at the tiny broken hair strands that have fallen into my palm. My hair had been my pride for as long as I had known. I had never known myself to even dare to cut it beyond a trim, much less attempt the task myself with the craft scissors I used for petty arts and crafts. Yet, standing in the middle of my tiny twin bathroom, I began to feel a twisted sense of power.

Bolder now, I grab a fistful of my hair and cut through it with the scissors once more. Staring at the mesh of hair in my hand, I let it slip between my fingers.

Thick, black hair falls in clumps onto the white tiles till it looks like thousands of tiny spiders accumulating at my feet. And almost, barely to hold it back, I choke down a sob.

This girl. The one with long, beautiful hair. She feels like a fraud.

She’s too perfect. Too smart. Too elegant. Too poised.

I feel like a fraud.

Because I’m not poised. I’m not elegant. Not smart. Not perfect.

And then I’m hacking through the hair, no thoughts in my head beyond the painful attempts at freeing myself from this forced crown of flawlessness. Because she’s not real. She never has been.

The scissor can barely cut now, too much hair caught in its crevices but I don’t care. I need to stop it. I need it all to stop.

When I finally do stop, it’s because my hand has reached a point of paint from being stuck inside tiny kid scissors and not because I’m anywhere near done. I stare at the angry red lines that remain on my hand from the vigor with which I’ve been cutting. Taking care to avoid my reflection in the mirror, I run my hands in the cold water of the sink.

My face burning, I dare dart my eyes to see the girl in the mirror. It’s barely a second before I force myself to look away because I can’t bear to see the truth. To know that the world can now see what I’ve always known inside.

To be honest, I’m surprised by the shame I feel. I thought embracing the raw honesty of who I am would be liberating, an almost freeing moment. But being here, being forced to see it, it’s almost worse than pretending. There’s no avoiding it now. Because everytime I’ll look in the mirror, it’ll be there.

Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, I’m more than aware of the burning warmth of tears pressing against my skin as they drip onto the tiles, constantly drawing my attention to the discarded hair I so painfully want to forget. And then I see it once more.

My escape. My chance to forget it all. My one true means of peace.

Grasping the scissors in my hand, I find that I’m not longer crying. Taking a deep breath, I steady myself.

Hands no longer shaking, focus anew with a different clarity, I press the blade to my wrist, finally ready to be free.