i need to stop eating my fortune cookies, they’re all coming true: a cautionary letter to my younger self I.
your parents are great indicators that nothing ever ends up perfect. they’ll read you countless stories of princesses and happily ever afters, but there’s always that bad taste in your mouth. we’re staying together for the kids but your dad is still sleeping on the couch outside your bedroom. his snores still crawl under your door like snails through thick moss. their second split will stick with you like syrup under your sleeve. you will have separation issues for the rest of your life. I am trying to pick the perfect strawberries
smelling the small containers, looking for fuzzy and furry spots when I hear someone who could sound like you ...if I listened hard enough. and still I look, frantic, wanting to shrink and crawl into the carton of sweet, juicy safety I am trying to return to normalcy although weekly chores feel like gearing up for battle; and there is no efficient camouflage for a suburban supermarket. my eyes begin shifting, searching, and scanning for familiar faces in the vegetable section, finding no one, thankfully. |
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