A letter from Jun 03, 2025

🏺Jun 3, 2025 Laica, Happy eighteenth birthday. I'm on the verge of seventeen I didn't know I would change so much. oh ****, I actually grew old. my younger selves would either find me cool or resent me. I bit the hand of god and now he's eating my heart like a pomegranate. I read things now that my younger self would’ve called a complete waste of time because back then, I only held what made sense. “why are you reading about ****** and motherhood and men?” she would’ve closed these books by now. I just think, that I have the will to create my own sense of what's true and sacred, I think I have the right to be ****** up—to be messy and distorted. I think I’m allowed to not forget. I’m allowed to feel incomplete because I am. and no. I'm not romanticizing my own wreckage because I'm not broken, I am becoming. I love you, for trying to fix me but grief doesn’t go away just because you get good at pretending and forgive me for becoming the things you think I'm not. and if you ask me again why I read such things perhaps it’s because I don’t know what else to do with this grief. I don’t know where to put it. I’m trying to figure out where I came from, because in the back of my mind I’m still trying to make sense of my father. and that's okay.