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You are Loved.

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I remember a distinct conversation I had with my dad in middle school. I was about 12, and while I can’t remember exactly what I was confiding in him about, his response has stayed with me since. “ Haili, sweetie, I need you to understand that not everyone is going to like you. You are smart, you are kind, and you are beautiful. People are going to hate you for that. ” I stared at him, bewildered. Why would people hate me for those things? As time went on, it started making more sense. And even though I could wrap my mind around it, I never truly internalized it correctly. I’d continue to overextend myself to be… oftentimes not even liked, but accepted. Not celebrated, but tolerated. I kept shrinking to not be alone. What I learned through mistreatment was that I was too much as I was, so if I minimized myself, I wouldn’t be scrutinized—and if I were lucky, I’d be accepted. The problem was, the acceptable version of me wasn’t really who I was. I’ve lived most of my life this way. Picki...
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Monday.

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up til 3:30 and wake up at noon  stare at the ceiling, wish it was the moon the sun shines through the blinds and silhouettes transcend on the walls my eyes won’t adjust to the light in front of me i see almost through a cloudy haze i feel like an eclipse locked in a maze hands grasp the door to turn a knob locked a few steps back and i’m right where i was before the moon as high as me, trapped inside this body so i run and i hide somewhere deep, deep inside to a place even i don’t know in hopes i’ll finally find something below a rainbow appears above the door a capture of the world ashore the symbol of hope in a meaningless wake i reach for it, but it transpires to a snake rattle rattle rings throughout the hollow room i shy away into a hopeless state of doom cornered by my own hopes and dreams the darkness cannot save me here
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A Story of No One

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​ a few more rotations around the sun   sun up to sun down i’ve forgotten the way your voice sounds  i see the flash of a film reel i dare not stare but my mind sometimes does wander there i’m growing older and i now remember  how close we really were together  i’d not change what is but i visit the shore somedays while the waves cast upon and away i know more time has passed than the time i knew you i still tell your jokes to new people  who don’t know they came from you so yes i’ve forgotten  but my body still remembers i trace the scar you gave me it’s faded, but it’s there i guess i’ve healed  i’m not who i was who are you now? i’ll never know but my mind does wander there no one in my life even knows that story or about you but i remember and you live on in me
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Until We Happen to Live

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For the first time in my life, I’m not afraid of the future. Woah, we’re starting off strong. Big step from  Approaching My Quarter Life Crisis ,  I Didn’t Think I’d Live This Long,  and  The Reckoning // The Relapse.  Kind of feels terrifying to say that, but it’s the truth.  I feel like Kevin McAllister in Home Alone running out of his house yelling, “Hey, I’m not afraid anymore! I said, I’m not afraid anymore! Do you hear me? I’M NOT AFRAID ANYMORE!” And of course no one is hearing me, but that isn’t the point. It’s in the way I carry myself, not what I announce. I have come to realize that fear is such a disease. It serves you nothing but anxiety on a silver platter and controls you. Stepping back from it all, I realized control is just as much of an internal nag. It’s all an illusion. Life goes through its ebbs and flows. You can have everything planned… until life happens. Because that is life. We don’t choose what happens, but we choose how we react ...
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The Golden Child and the Green Light

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​ It was 2016, towards the end of my freshman year of high school. I was at school early before classes started. I had an honors English class first period, and that day I had to do a speaking analysis in front of my class about  The Great Gatsby  for a final. I was sat in a rarely trafficked hallway with a new friend of mine, though we barely knew each other at the time. I was going through my annotations, discussing the book with him to prepare. He was a couple grades ahead of me and already knew the book. Nearly ten years later, this memory has stuck with me so vividly I can still feel the cold tile underneath me while we sat on the floor. I think it was one of the first times in my life someone had discussed something intellectually intimate with me. I remember feeling ill-prepared, rummaging through my book and the notebook paper I’d written notes on. He assured me that I would do fine. I kept rehearsing my speech, careful not to close my thesis too early, as it was timed...
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