Loss entered my life early, shifting the air around me before I had words for what was happening. In second grade, my great-grandmother died. It was the first time I saw adults cry in that particular way—quiet, resigned, as if their grief was older than their words. I didn’t know then that it was only the beginning, the start of a rotation of painful goodbyes I would learn too early and too often. By fourth grade, the losses came so close together they blurred. My uncle died

I am the torn fabric. The frayed edge. The thread that snapped mid-stitch. The seam that never held. I have asked the question over and over: how can she live with herself? How can she focus on a new girlfriend when my life has been shredded beyond repair? She had to tear mine apart to build hers, and I’m the one left holding the loose ends. I can’t eat a full meal or sleep a full night. I can’t work, or focus, or date. I barely exist between panic and exhaustion. Every corne

Note: This post contains some sensitive information regarding mental health. My brain's trauma response has been, at the very least, interesting to observe. I have had dark thoughts imagining suicide, I have fantasized about others feeling pain so mine might ease, and I have endured panic attacks no matter where I am—concerts, trivia night, even the Pride parade. One of the most frequent responses comes in the form of nightmares. For one solid week, I had one every single n