It's Distracting

he said, how any of my sweet words would echo in his head. 

How eager he was to text me again. Too eager that he'd text me while I slept.

Him being awake, with me alive in a picture as soon as he closed his eyes, was a "pretty little curse." 

In the morning, I woke to paragraphs. I woke to confessions. To well wishes. A half-delirious desire of us penpalling one day, brightly dried flowers falling from the envelope.

I woke up smilin'. Eager for his embrace.Eager to be held by someone so sure about me for once. Was I ever as sure about myself?

He re-taught me the best thing that I learn and learn again: the right one makes sure you know. The one is unafraid. Unafraid to bend at his knee before you.

His heart pulsed in my hands, blood dripping the floor.

It's this kind of guy that you're afraid of. It's the ones that were good to you. 

He was good to me. 

He bowed before me. Scared. Confident. Promising. 

And god, was he beautiful. The sharp eyes of a sorcerer. Lines upon lines on a body that felt like, "mine". Strong from 6 hour hikes a week. If the word exists, then it's "god".

And god, how the skies changed at his laugh. Made my stomach a mess. I would always waver, if I ever heard it again.

How incredibly smart he was. Every idea of mine, he met. Every idea of mine, he enjoyed and extended. I can't finish what I started. He's already made the idea something else. I'm caught, laughing. Surprised. So quick-witted, we were chasing each other.

And god, his voice. I never heard a voice more beautiful. Actually. 

Truth, I say. 

In just a few days, how quickly Taylor Swift's "Daylight" flooded my playlist. "Golden golden like daylight." The moment I awoke, his voice meets my screen. My face flooded in joy.

It's this kind of guy, who makes you dream and want so much. 

These guys hurt you the most. 

I miss that beautiful, beautiful voice. 

6 months have passed since. And the stain of "love", was it? 

How quickly you came into my life. How dare you. How dare you fucking

haunt me. 

A 10-day stay was all. Every night. Every hour of those days, I felt like every guy before and after you, could never ever compare. There could never be anyone else that could make me so fearless. 

To the point of recklessness. How vulnerable I was. I was wide open for when you hit me when it hurt most. I never expected to be burnt by you at all.

6 months later, I still... burn. Thinking about you. 

Is it anger? 

No. 

Is it thirst? 

No. 

Is it regret?

If only... I had you for longer. Maybe I could have convinced you to stay.

Then it must be anger?

Yes. How could anyone leave me the way you did? Like it was easy. 

To fall for you the way I did. Like it was easy. 

Because it fucking was

distracting how when I meet anyone else, like I have in the past 6 months, and wonder if I'd feel even a third of what I felt with you. 

Just a third, would do. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Another break up poem! Gosh, my love life on my blog is only represented in its after glory.

This blog post was actually inspired by a different guy in mid-December. It was going to start like this, 

"'it's distracting,' he said, if his car smells like me

and now he has to drive home through the storm, alone like a littler man."

That guy, let's call him D. 

But then, New Years Day came along, and I met J. And it was history. So now, this poem became completely J's poem. 

J is... another person who haunts me. Wildly, even half a year later. How dare he? 

But other than that, I promise I'm okay haha. I'm good bean. :)

Episode 88: "You're On Your Own Kid, You Always Have Been" - TS

I'm in someone else's living room. A friend's. Elise's. Its beautifully decorated couches greet my eyes. The coziness of this place brings me so much joy. Last night's movie, Persuasion, was the loveliest movie. How much yearning Anne had for Wentworth. How much agony he had for her. I cried. 

Elise and I still thought about it long after.

When was the last time I was in Wesley House's living room? When was the last time I was in Haven's? And I didn't know it? 

There have been too many lasts this past week. 

Tomorrow, Sunday, May 28th marks my one-week-a-versary since my graduation. 

I don't think I've properly sat somewhere and cried yet. 

I don't think I've properly sat anywhere within myself to take it in, accept my new reality as the graduate. 

I'm a graduate. An alumni. 

I'm scared. But I mean, my reality is much better than the survival my parents fought for every day to make it in Vietnam and the U.S. I'm literally traveling around NYC right now. And planning a trip to Colombia with friends. Returning home tomorrow, finally. This whole thing of being on my own and taking care of myself is coming to an end for now. I'm scared, but it's only because of a luxury that I, not my parents, can afford. 

I'm scared of possibility, not survival. 

I am unemployed. I am part of the transition group of people. 

Mom and Dad call me every day to make sure I'm okay. I may be a graduate but I'm someone else's baby.

My friends ask how I am. My little sister updates her friendship plans. 

My salsa and bachata weekend plans with Achillea and Merna. Movie nights and lunch dates with Neha. Friendship cuddles and hanging out with Ivanna. Restaurant visits and cafe dates with Manal. Rolled ice cream dates and long walks with Phuong. Working my shifts with Achillea, Merna. Welp. Running into my boss in my opening shifts. Running into everyone ever on campus and being someone's "hello" and "I'll catch you later."

I give the longest hugs but I wish I hugged everyone longer. My all. I wish there was a return button. 

There is a flurry of memory. Of people who loved me. And I loved. I was never ready to leave. I was only ready to love.

Timoteo and Celia said it gets better after college. You're free to be who you really are.

Free of homework. Financial independence. Write.

But will I ever have that again? To live so close to friends?

I don't know how or where I am, even as I travel in space and time and meet new people everywhere, but I only know that the plane home is alone. 

I only know that the possibility I had worked so hard for these past 4 years was for myself. I only know that the surest thing is the end. The goodbye or maybe-see-you-again after I hug you. 

Were we always made to be alone again?

I'm usually the optimist. I swear I still am. 

Just, this pain, this hurt from the goodbyes over and over again, this change that I am reluctant to accept, will I always board ships of no return?

18-year-old-me could never imagine when mom and yen dropped me off at Cutter Ziskind with my bags and Cuddles, my sleeping bunny, that I would grow so attached. That Chi Xuan's words, as the gray Northampton sky touched all the windows of the Japanese restaurant, were true: these would be the happiest years.

I didn't believe it. Northampton, this tiny ass town with little to do?

The same town I'd dance bachata every other weekend.

Happiest years of my life?

Friends that gripped for my hands back. "Stay", I said in my heart. One arm wrapped around you. The other hand still holding on my new black diploma cover, the one I gave a heart to the camera and a twirl for: "DieuNgoc Khoa Nguyen."

Where was I the night of March 10th?

In Chapin House, waltzing with Neha. Her perfect curvy shape against my hand, allowing me to lead through every step. We had so much fun, we couldn't stop. We danced to songs I'd probably have at my wedding. 

At a Smith basketball game. In my pre-clubbing outfit. White on white and surprisingly, those were Smith's colors that night. Morgan, the top athlete of the year, looked riveting on the court. My eyes followed every speed and grace. The players were the monks and the court was religion. The ball, a mantra. And my favorite, #5, she made me scream so loud, dunking it every shot. My voice was sore.

At Amherst's Monkey Bar. The only one of two on the dance floor. The dance floor looks crazier and crazier with less and less people. A woman, a stranger felt my butt. She took too much. Mariem stayed at the bar, drinking an alcoholic drink more sweet than it was holic, while Achillea requested for Bad Bunny to be played. We were the only 2 on the dance floor anyways. I kept re-sticking in my ear plugs and pulling them out and re-sticking them. A man tried to dance with me. His moves sucked.

In Antonio's pizza. I left ordering nothing. Should've. Saw Kobe, an old writing mate. I was a singular girl again amongst a sea of 5'6+ white men. Such an alpha female move to be in line and order nothing. 

We made it on the bus, not before belting "A Whole New World" like we our hearts were whole.

I think about that night a lot.

an email I wrote to organizers and future student leaders of the Jar Project at my college

*below is an email I wrote about a jar project that had angered me for so many reasons. I finished writing it yesterday at 4 pm after 3 hours of perfecting it. when it comes to race and community and dialogue, I deeply care about those kinds of discussions. when activism is done in a way that hurts the community more than it was before, that's when I get angry. especially when such discussions were entrusted to student leaders that promised to represent me, voices like mine were overlooked. left out.

activism should be as healing as it is forceful. hurt does not fight hurt. i hope that my email below introduces ideas that future student leaders at my college would consider when thinking about the impact they're making on our small, liberal, bubble-like campus. 

i say a lot when i'm angry.

hope you'll enjoy the tea below ;)

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

4.22.23.

Hello, 

My name is DieuNgoc Nguyen, a current Smith college senior and here have been my consistent thoughts of the late jar project and the impact of the Student Power Coalition thus far from it. 

I understand Leela has stepped down as president, but from word of mouth, I heard that Leela was also a part of the Jar Project's organizing so I have included Leela in this email as well. 

**And to Tamra or the SGA Office, if I can have your help in forwarding my email here to future candidates of SGA, that would be very helpful. Much of the future of race relations on campus is in their hands. 

I may be a senior with just one month left. I've never been a part of SGA. I've only viewed it from afar and occasionally filled out surveys at SGA tables at most. So yes, I'm not very involved on campus in government, but I deeply care about the Smith community and the conversations we have around race. I was the lead organizer of a past event centering Anti-Asian Hate amidst the pandemic, so race discussions are something I am at least familiar with.

This email is for the Student Power Coalition, nestled within SGA. And to SGA as well. To future SGA candidates. And to the leaders who approved of the Jar Project.

I admire your goals and values to make smith a more equitable place. I am a first-gen, low-income student myself. I also worked the opening campus center shift that saw the additions of obscure quotes from confessional and two white sheets of paper with the words "WHITE RAGE" at the center of it all. Of course I was curious, so I got really close to the new changes of the wall of hats and read each confessional quote taped to the exhibition. Confessional is an anonymous space. I looked back at the title again. "White Rage." With no context given, I understood that the new wall art was supposed to highlight how all these obscure quotes must be about something race-related. I remember how that morning there was a lot of talk about what these White Rage posters were about. Again, such little context. Just, words claiming something that held a lot of weight but had no context. 

It absolutely felt like fear-mongering, for the zero context it had. Different quotes on different doors. Students of color in my friendship circles would speculate for days that different confessional quotes were on different houses based on whether or not that Smith house had majority POC or not. Whatever it was, it felt as if whoever put those quotes up had information about the inhabitants of that house. Of course, upon further speculation, I realized all these quotes were criticisms of the Jar Project. 

However, very few people I knew could make this connection. It felt as if I was the only one who knew, so I found myself explaining this connection to many of my friends of color who were alarmed by this on their doors, and friends who were white who were also alarmed by this. 

So I asked myself, "what the heck is going on? How are anonymous quotes criticizing the jar project automatically under white rage? It makes me white to criticize the jar project?" SPC is a committee under SGA. SGA is supposed to represent my voice, and as someone who works the night shift too at the CC, I haven't been able to share my thoughts yet. So here they are.

So far, the actions and approach of the Jar Project in its pursuit of equity and inclusion, I feel does not represent my values. Neither does it include me. I don't know how you folks gathered input from the community to go forth with a project that you thought helpful to the community, but certainly not from folks that have my values when approaching activism. I'm going to assume you folks found input and validation amongst yourselves. That's fine and all except, you're a subcommittee under SGA. Again, the role of which is to consider my concerns and find a way to reach out to me. Neither of this was tended to. So I'm going to assume the BIPOC, first generation, low income demographic that your circles work within does not include a Vietnamese American first generation, low income student as myself. 

You might disagree with me and the way I approach activism on campus, but I don't think you're creating a healthy environment for future, long term, truly long term, community discussions and ownership about race and equity. I understand the intention of the jar project is to give students who've experienced racial discrimination from a big act to a micro aggression to be honest to their "perpetrator" who must qualify as a white person. Perhaps that really is how you view racism. But see, that does two things. (1) it makes the situation very black and white. Racism doesn't just source from white folks, which is the hallmark of your project. There's many types of racism. Racism even between communities of color which is rarely talked about. Racism based on motherland politics. (1.5) With just a jar expressing feelings, there's no next steps. For such an ambitious project that required tapping into one's innermost pain, there was very little guidance. No next steps to heal.  Simply air your thoughts. But what about the possible retaliation later? And considering the other side receiving the jar, it would feel like a witch hunt. So now, individuals just need to learn to better hide their biases, in broad daylight, but hiding is not productive in race discussions. 

(2) looking at the long term consequences of your impact so far, you're making a community where it will only be more difficult to talk about race, not without a fear of stepping on toes or making indelible mistakes. Again, with no next steps, the receivers might do well by saying sorry, but what's exactly happening? What's the outcome that you truly wanted to achieve? Because certainly, individual healing is not achieved, not when neither party knows what to do after sending a jar. And certainly, community healing is not achieved, if the organizers of this project have unintentionally or intentionally created a culture that will only ever be anxious and fearful when discussing race in public spaces. And that limits the quality of future race conversations on campus, especially between non-POC and POC folks. 

And it is exactly race conversations between non-POC and POC folks that we need to increase both the quantity and quality of. But SPC's impact might very well limit both, if not just the quality.

It's important at Smith that we continue talking about race. So the values of your work are critical for that. However, to me, for the conversations around race to be truly thriving, truly alive, truly fearless, we need to approach it in a way that allows the people of Smith College to know that there is room to make mistakes together and to adapt and grow together, at the individual level. At the systemic level, where there is profound institutional racism, the phone line is open. That it's actually a dialogue. Actually a conversation. Involving everyone. That we are not just talking to a wall and that we ourselves are also not a wall. 

So perhaps this issue, you can deal with as SPC within SGA and forever be limited by not representing enough voices like mine. Or you can make your own club that best represents your own interests. But I hope you'll consider my points when creating your impact. That you truly leave this space better than when you came into it. 

That it's not about setting up a space that feels like fear-mongering to get to your goals (like waiting for a jar to get to your door or waiting for the retaliation you might receive after sending your jar to a person that knows it's probably you or reading context-less posters with words that inspire fear and trepidation). There are other ways to reach justice. There are other ways for dialogue. 

For making everyone included in your activism. 

It is forever a lonely uphill battle if you cannot even identify your own allies or inspire fear in the communities you promised to serve.

For many reasons (like safety of the students, I'm going to assume important housing information and details landed in your hands to deliver the jars) that even I didn't get to discuss so far, I fear that your jar project, which started from a very important space, has left our community with more cuts than you went into it. 

And it has angered me so. Thank you for reading. Happy to discuss and learn more.

Thank you.

Where Do All My Hairs Go?

[Read this post to this music: I'll Be Home for Christmas Except It's April 2023]

I blew some wittle strands off my laptop.

It seems I only ever get onto this blog to write anything about my life when I'm in crisis. 

Homework crisis. I don't know what I don't know again. 

I sit still under the rain. When the rain leaves me drenched, I sit still under the sun. A leaf floats from a nearby tree and lands on the spot between my eyebrows, because I'm soaking up the sun that's suddenly arrived all week.

Perhaps there's a pair of sweatpants headed my way. A leash in their hands. The sweatpants pass me by. The dog turns around, eyes searching for any familiarity in me. Its paws continue skipping ahead. I'm not even a friend. Maybe one day I am. 

My own hands are holding onto a fine pen and small notebook, the size of my palm. So small, it's only meant for memorable quotes said by friends at most. Or doodles of whales circling moons at its least.

A notification that my 4 new phone cases from Shein have arrived make my phone chirp. Each case is decorated with images I've probably already dreamed of before but never thought to make a business idea out of. If only I had that entrepreneur mindset along with my econ degree. And thank god I only dream shit. Not draw them too. I'd be unstoppable.

There's a laugh across the street I could recognize anywhere. A part of me longs to be where that laugh is, but maybe we're no longer close enough for me to suddenly reach out. My hands search for the next thing to write.

Ah. Another list. 

A small notebook of lists. Always and always about things I haven't done yet. And not the things I've already done.

The very tips of my hairs come into perspective as I focus on the page on that small notebook in my lap. 

Split ends. Almost everywhere if I look hard enough. Split ends where there are none. I pull softly on a small bunch of them and again and always, a hair already free from my head and only waiting for another force to let it go, separates itself from all the other hairs already stuck on my head. 

That hair slides along the other hairs. Goodbyes. To everybody. 

I pull it all the way out and examine the entirety of its thinness. Its length. Not delicate at all. 

I rub it one way. And then the other way. I pinch it between my fingers. 

Then another hair already on my lap, perhaps from a while ago, comes into perspective. I really do stress shed. Maybe that dog from earlier saw it before I did and was wondering why I didn't put my loose hairs back on my head. 

But what's left is left. 

With two strands in my hands. And a pen. And a notebook on my lap. 

I can only hold onto so much. My hands are wittle after all. Good for making comparisons of "ohmigod your hands are so bigggg compared to mine" with hands of single men who have promised me from head to toe that they are single and are absolutely not in open relationships and who managed to actually make me blush. 

My little sister would suggest maybe to wait for the next biggest wind. 

"Then you let it go." 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

So I wait for a wind that never comes. Not for the next 14 minutes. 

While I wait, my lips wish for a sweetness. Like Dr. Pepper. Rock sugar and artichoke juice. 

I remember the days when I used to wait all the damn day to get home. Autumns that felt like summers. Spring that felt like summers. Some lucky afternoons after school, my grandma would have it already made: rock sugar and artichoke juice. "Now we add the ice. You can't just drink it the moment you get home. Wash those hands."

I gulp it anyways. Straight from the jug. 

Fucking wise-woman shit. 

"Come here boy. Tch, tch. No more sniffing. We gotta go. Come on." Sweatpants sweats past my thoughts. I'm trying to remember my grandma right now, come on. 

Yes, she's still alive. No, I haven't called her in 2 weeks.

I wonder if sweatpants ever had the opportune to chance on such a wicked combination. Rock sugar and artichoke juice and ice. The dog turns and looks at me again. A bit more recognition this time. 

Yes, I've seen you before. 

A wind should pick up by now. Blowing all these poor strands that took a while to grow on my head, away from me. The wind will carry the strands to the patch of grass the dog wanted to sniff earlier. 

Maybe if the dog passed that grass a third time. And my strands were there. Maybe the perfume I wore today, painting those strands, would be something to recognize, if we ever meet again. 

Episode 87: Uncertainty

I am brimming in it. 

What am I going to do with my life?

Questions I've avoided answering are hitting me in every direction. 

I am a floating piece of bright purple tissue paper. But unlike something that floats and goes with the wind, I am more like a paralyzed rock. 

I am not moving because I don't know how to write and talk about myself. I'm unsure if I'll bring real value to any space. Sure, I do it here on this blog. Sure, I do it when I force myself in my classes. But... there's real urgency now. A start of a career. What am I to do after I leave college? 

My social life. My life life? 

Like a strike of lightning, I wish I had the answers. 

I wish I was more comfortable clarifying my life path earlier. I wish I weren't so paralyzed. Feeling so useless. So unfit. So weak. 

So dang small. 

A part of me is just tired of fighting for myself. 

The life after Smith is a life full of self-advocacy. Self self self. How alone alone. 

I am scared. Less scared of uncertainty than I used to be. But heck, I truly have no idea what to do next. No fucking clue. 

How 22 of me. Heh.

Episode 86: Wesley House

I return to you, as I am. As I used to. 

I return to you changed. Charged. Guilty of leaving you. 

I return to you like a guest now. When I used to call you shelter. House. Home.

I turn into you wearing sneakers you've never felt on my feet to sound your hallways. 

My fingers find the switches next to your living room door. It remembers even the small slider that can dim your orange, golden lights. It remembers how to deftly remove my own coat and rest it on one of your assorted chairs. Mismatched and always in unhelpful places for a proper house meeting. But placed perfectly for friends to be knee-to-knee.  

My eyes know where to look. Out your window. To Paradise Pond. I remember that one evening freshman year, the sky was ablaze like a phoenix. I chased the colors out your window, standing in front of you jacketless, mouth agape. Eyes wide and heart on fire. I felt myself whispering, "There's no view prettier than this. I wish... I wish that..." my eyes never once closing. Not until the sky's fire dimmed. I think you knew what was happening to me, watching me with... I'd imagined you'd have blue eyes. You're the only house on campus painted such a lovely color.

I look at the singular small bookshelf on your right. I remember there were more games back in my day, when I'd ask my friends to borrow some from our neighbor Haven House. Red Flags. Cards Against Humanity. Code Name. I hosted parties and board game nights in your living room, Wesley. I hosted Friday movie nights, cuddling against all my friends on your couch. I was just someone seeking the next moment to tell a joke, to make someone laugh. I still do that, but I perfected this skill under your roof, Wesley.

I turn my head to your stairs. A beautiful little thing, carpeted from the first to the second floor. Basic ass from the second to third floor. I have had questions about your stairs' consistency. But I don't care. Anyone walking down your stairs is a thunder that rumbles through the house, perhaps because you only house 17 people, you like announcing any arrivals or departures. "Every person should be thunder in this little space." I can imagine you grinning and telling me so. 

It was on your stairs that I heard a familiar thunder. A friend that I would still call today, once every 2 weeks. "Where are you headed?" I'd ask. "What are you up to?" she'd ask. Either one of us leaning into your wooden stair rails, a cube top, gazing down at the other. Gazing up at the other. "When are we calling?" 3 years later. 

I think you knew what was happening to me as I slowly headed up the stairs, 

to the third floor where I lived. I had a view of your parking lot. Where, I never foresaw this since heck, you're located at a traditional all-women's college, but where men I liked or loved would pick me up and drop me off and kiss me good night for the next three years. A room where I hung my Marvel A-Force poster and random shit I have no recollection of. Ah, a string of beautifully folded cranes that Nina made for my 19th birthday.

On that third floor, I'd leave little notes on my neighbor's door and pretend to the same neighbor that I don't know who's been doing that. Innocent. She knew I wasn't, I know, but it was fun to be what I wasn't. She was my second friend on campus. She loved horseshoe crabs, and one day, in an attempt to get over my fear of horseshoe crabs, I told her a thing I regret so much, "You may remove that horseshoe corpse off your wall. I wanna see how it looks from below its shell, heh." 

Miriam agreed. I don't know why upskirting/up-shelling a horseshow crab would help me get over my fear of them but that shit was horrifying. All their little legs. The DETAIL. I freaked out and ran away to the opposite end of the hallway. She started walking towards me with it.

"GET THAT CREEPY SCARY THING AWAY FROM ME. IM CALLING MY MOM."

We laughed so hard. I died that night, holding onto your walls. All your walls. Screaming at Miriam to back off bitch. 

On a more calm note, leaving your front door, I'd pause at the top of the steps, breathing in cold air and breathing out to see my own breaths. Taking in this beautiful view of Paradise Pond and the edge of the white curves of the Botanic Garden. I would know that I was in the exact place I was supposed to be, before walking to Seelye Hall like a good little student.

You knew I was falling in love with you, as my silhouette shrunk. 

You knew you were a big reason of why I loved Smith so much. You knew how beautiful you were to me. You knew how excited I'd get whenever I saw your blue color from as far away as the bottom of the hill. You knew how much I loved spending my academic FOCUS hours in your living room, how much I laughed and laughed and laughed. I laughed because I was loved. 

And I was loving. 

You knew I was in love with you. 

But then I spent a year away from you in Houston, TX because of Covid. I spent one semester in Singapore's parks and beaches, addicting myself to HECKING AWESOME cold beancurd. I spent a summer housed by a stranger turned someone I love in DC, but was someone who loved me first. The lonely young professional DC life. I lived on my own. I lived with people I grew to love. I lived with people until I knew how to make them laugh. I developed a knack for wearing the most colorful outfits and loving my thighs even when they were at their thickest, tiger marks appearing almost everywhere. 

I learned how unafraid I am of confrontation, always ready to defend my right or defend others. My body placing itself between a verbally aggressive person and a stranger who told him to go away on the dance floor. My mind finding the words to tell fencing club to find another space to do their training and when gaming club is done, we'd give them the room. It's not our fault our two clubs were double-booked. We were there first. I wasn't even a board member.

I knew to call men who had a fishy way about them, whether it be the way they looked at me or the way they spoke to me, "Mister." 

"Mister Adam. Hello."

"Oh no, I'm not that old! Call me Adam."

"I was raised that way, Mister Adam. To respect strangers." Mr. Adam would whisper to Ms. Jennifer who invited me there, "Why would she call me Mister? I'm really not that old." 

She'd respond baffled, "You're more than double her age aren't you?" Later in the car, Ms. Jennifer would keep echoing how proud she was of me. That I knew so quickly how to physically separate myself from men who were interested in me at the sailing club meet with my words. With respect. 

I knew how to play the love game. My friends come to me for relationship advice. "If he really liked you, you'd know. There's no guessing. He'd let you know every day if he could. You'd know it like breathing, like air."

"But what if he doesn't text all day? But only once?"

I'd answer, "If Barack Obama can text Michelle that he's on his way, between flights? Any man can really do it, if he really wanted to." 

"Wow, I'mma use that. I'mma use that."

God. Barack is my Achilles heel. My freshman year self was still into Tom Hiddleston. So yes, even my taste in men has changed.

I return to you changed. 

So today, your used-to-be freshman, now senior, remembers you. Returns to you. 

I turn to you like a temperature dial. I turn to warmer times of my younger, foolish, funfest past whenever I feel the slightest cold.

I turn to you whenever I want to feel small again. Protected again. Young and laughing and more careless than I was careful. 

I returned to you today, realizing how far I've come. How far I went when I left you. Too much to share. You'd care to listen to all of it.

I am guilty for leaving you. I am guilty and I won't be so silly as to not remember you.

Remember you, I always will. 

Thank you, my favorite little blue house.

A Song I replayed for the hour I wrote this