Thinking of you, I feel a literal pain in my chest, as if a foreign object had been wedged in between the narrow confines of my chest. When I move, it twists and jolts and stings in my ribcage. A severe expression of hurt had surfaced on my face so blatantly that a few co-workers asked, "Are you okay?" I walked around monotonously to allow the air to wash away the redness in my face and restrict the water pricking at my eyes. I now remember how it is to feel despondency and selfishness. I had forgotten how to feel. It's disgusting and sick how you have ruined me.

Over-scheduling seems to be the pillar of all my problems. I am drawn to the idea of accomplishing, never dawdling and always keeping busy. No time is reserved for socialization unless I see a beneficial purpose. Having various commitments, I feel strained by my immense desire to do more.

I see people older than me and it seems like they've hit a glass ceiling. Despite their capabilities, responsibility holds them back from unlocking greater potential. I don't want to follow in their footsteps. To me, it is shameful and disappointing. I can't be like that. I have to keep scheduling. I refuse to stay here past 21.

However, I haven't practiced what I need; instead, I've pulled myself in multiple directions. It's a disservice to myself and others. Prioritize, prioritize, prioritize, I tell myself. I won't be in the same place by 21.

"I’m in love with you. Yeah, it’s that bad. You’re so beautiful to me. Shut up, let me tell you, let me. Every time I look at your face, or even remember it, it wrecks me. And the way you are with me, and you’re just fun and you shit all over me and you make fun of me and you’re real. I don’t have enough time in any day, to think about you enough. I feel like I’m gonna live a thousand years 'cause that’s how long it’s gonna take me to have one thought about you, which is that I’m crazy about you. I don’t wanna be with anybody else. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t think about women anymore. I think about you. I had a dream the other night that you and I were on a train. We were on this train and you were holding my hand. That’s the whole dream, you were holding my hand and I felt you holding my hand. I woke up and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t real. I’m sick in love with you. It’s like a condition, it’s like polio. I feel like I’m gonna die if I can’t be with you and I can’t be with you, so I’m gonna die and I don’t care 'cause I was brought into existence to know you, and that’s enough. The idea that you would want me back? It’s like, greedy." ~Louis C.K.

"turning 20" by Caitlyn Siehl

so now you’re about to turn twenty and the world hasn’t gotten any bigger for you. you’re untouched, unloved, unprepared. your parents still pay for your gas. your friends all have internships. one of them even got cast to be in a movie. you’ve got all this talent that you don’t know how to share. you just want to fuck someone, anyone, to feel a little less like an island. the man at the McDonald’s drive-thru held both sides of your hand when he handed you your change and you cried the entire way home. skin burns. you’re about to turn twenty and you feel like you’re fifteen. you sleep for fourteen hours and still need a nap. the world is shrinking one empty heartache at a time.

you’re scared you’ll never find anyone to love you, not even well. you’ll settle for anything.

don’t.

you’re about to turn twenty and they never remind you how young that is. falling in love does not make you grow up, heartbreak does, and there is more than one way to fall apart.

you’re about to turn twenty and it’s okay if you aren’t ready. it’s okay if you aren’t ready. it’s okay.

Our routines give ourselves away. People like what is familiar and safe and widely understood. They attempt to hide themselves behind the shadow of another, yet they must cling to that last vestige of who they are or what they want to be. This appears in their words, gestures, and references. In writing, specific words can indicate a certain culture and upbringing, like one's socio-economic status or which ethnic group they belong to. Across every face is the same expression that caters to a specific role in society. It's not reinventing oneself, but mimicry by playing the same character in a show. I wonder how much people can read into me and how much they have found, and whether I was as generic as everybody else.

Expressing affection in the utterance of the words “I love you” seems so simple, but it was a phrase I could never tell my parents or brothers. I love you. I love you. It should not be such a strenuous task. Tenderness was never my forte. With significant others, I constantly choked on the words; my trembling carcass spilled out with saliva and waste, but never an I-love-you. I wrote small essays delineating my fondness for people before and struggled orate the painful passages. I felt myself suffocating with the phrase lodged in my throat. My fondness can be found in a mess of unsent, unspoken written letters and in the white emptiness of a Word Document where I deleted a typed message. My love is evident in my counter-productive struggle to permanently leave parasitic individuals in my life. Much of my thoughts about them remain locked in the safety of my head, partly because an I-love-you is not enough, and partly because my verbal delivery of the words will taint the purity and meaning behind the words.

However, when I attach an I-love-you next your name, it seems to fit naturally in my mind.