write as poorly as possible

i wash. i take. i see.

i am full of false starts. i think when it’s too familiar a topic and something so embedded into your coding it can be hard to take it out and examine it, this feeling, outside of your body. i try to break it down, the details. this is what i look like. i take selfies so i can try and remember. dysmorphia is real. what i see is always changing so i can’t trust this information so i have to use different tools. things i know that are facts. i have receipts. i am kind and i love hard to my own detriment. i am likeable. i know how to make people feel at ease. my husband’s mother is dying. i am watching how i hold space for him, for his family, mostly for him. i can read the room and intuitively know when to leave it. i make a mean loaf of bread. i have the patience for waiting for it. i remember birthdays. i send cards. i even send cards on non-holidays because i love like that. i dig for these things everyday. i hold them in my hands, i open each finger to show you these small treasures, it’s all i have that matters, it’s all i know to be true.