What Was

I rediscover what once was myself sometimes. I will stumble across a handwritten note, in what isn’t even close to my handwriting anymore. The honesty in those stilted lead letters, the bravery in casting onto a sheet torn from a unicorn diary permanent prose with the simplicity of childhood, brings tears to my eyes and makes me mourn who I was then. Even in the words you read now, I think about you reading them. It’s always about the audience.

What would I have been if I hadn’t given so much of myself to so many along the way? If those green eyes hadn’t stolen a piece of my heart, or if that boisterous broad hadn’t overshadowed my sparkle? What would I say if I still had my voice? How would I act if the x’s on my clothes hadn’t taken my confidence? If men hadn’t trampled my trust and menial jobs hadn’t crushed my soul? What would it be like if no’s had been yes’s and empty pockets had been payroll? If imagination hadn’t been replaced with spreadsheets and calendar requests?

I wonder if that fifth grader writing so honestly in her diary and crying onto its pages is the same as the woman whose tears fall upon this keyboard now? Or do these tears fall from the knowledge that that girl is lost forever?