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No one in New York City noticed a person in a dark coat, walking alone away from the docks. No one in New York City noticed a person dropping a pair of bloodstained gloves in an alleyway. No one in New York City noticed much at all.
My mother once told me a girl’s success in this world was dependent on how well she could pretend.
The shame I carry for being so angry at her for being unwell, for being unable to take care of me in the way I craved.
I’ve never been comfortable living with grief like an open wound. The sepsis of it seeps through my veins, a pain deeply my own. I’ve never known how to let go of something this big, so I’ve clung to it instead.
“Women are supposed to be competent at everything, but experts at nothing. Haven’t you heard?”
“I feel a hundred and fifty. And also maybe five. An elderly toddler. The world’s oldest idiot. I know too much and nothing at all.” He doesn’t laugh at my joke but tilts his head to the side and looks at me. Quietly he whispers, “You’re allowed to just be yourself sometimes.” His gaze is so intense. I break it like a coward and shake the thoughts girls aren’t allowed to have out of my head. “It would be easier if I knew who ‘myself’ was supposed to be.”
