you probably don't remember this. we waltzed to operation ivy around your girlfriend's
parents' basement in between glue-gunning playing cards to your cab and amp, cards you'd later remove and stick to your acoustic, but that happened in another house with different music and i called myself your girlfriend then.

but this isn't about you or that.

none of this is about you, though you're the example. you're the memories i race back to, not as comfort, for when i fear getting old. you're the reminder that upon securing companionship, i am no longer a person of my own merit. i become someone else's idea of quirky clumsy mildly intelligent bookworm thrifty punk rock girlfriend who looks and plays the part really fucking well. no one lets me in. i am given but an inch with which i run for great distances and over-imagine and idolize someone i confuse for more than just a man.

but this isn't about that either.

i return to these dog-eared pages to remind myself of who i've tried to escape. it's not just you, or him, or some other tattooed memory in a t-shirt and blue jeans. i don't want to say it's myself either. it's much easier to say "learn from your mistakes" than to put the idea into practice. i can't hide from my mistakes or anyone else. but i can walk.
i can walk and type and shout and scream for miles. i will never once say, "why bother?"
i will not be a prisoner of my own discontent, my own poor judgement, my anger, my uneasiness, my unopened book. i am not going to hide. i am not wearing the handcrafted mask of faces men would rather love more than my own. i will not strive to be the better of some charmer's "her."

i want to be the corner's crease in someone else's book.