A year ago today, I was on top of Mauna Kea chasing around federally protected birds with my boyfriend. A year later, I think back to that day, to that trip, to the days we spent under towels on the beach, whispering and kissing, and I only wonder what I could have possibly done to fuck it all up. I sob in the shower, long past the point when the water's run cold, the only thing permeating is the fear that I can never, will never find love or be loved again. My gross imperfection speaking directly to my lack of worth.
I must find a way to be perfect, to be loved, to be wanted. Because seven months later, I still can't seem to get over it, and I realize that it's not him I'm [not] getting over, it's me. And I can't get over me because that's settling, accepting defeat, It's succumbing to the fact that I found the woman who is just like me, is related to me, and deciding that I don't want her, that I very nearly hate her, because she very nearly deserves it.
It's suggesting that I don't have to be perfect.
What a lie.
What a fucking lie.