She’s
foreign adventures and leather boots and rock climbing. She’s digging up dead
people and their things and Indiana Jones. She’s sweat, exhilaration after a
workout, and fresh manicures. She’s eating until you hate yourself and the
laugh she makes when it’s suggested that she has a parasite. She’s the need to
speak her mind, and the judgment when you do something stupid. She’s black
coffee and maps and cats. She’s playing
the same song over and over until everyone who spends any amount of time with
her knows all the words. She’s the color black, the vast emptiness of space,
and colonizing the moon. She’s anxiety and panic attacks, but needing to look
fierce even when she’s falling apart because some part of her life has to be
put together.
She may be
held together by duct tape, but she won’t let that stop her.
You never thought that it would.
