gripping the bathroom sink, tearing at my hair

frustration is love in the right lighting.

i guess everything is, to some degree or another. there's

almost more than i can manage.

my mother isn’t around, so

i let the rain wet my hair

( she reads this and

laughs and

also grieves all of the daughters

she didnt find in me )

i spend hours sitting with myself. i’ve

no

idea how to be 18.

i’ll learn.

it will take me a year; i will learn.