Cleaning out a closet I ran into one of your old journals. Once I realized what it was, fully, the words I’d read seared me inside. I wanted to close it, throw it, rip it, burn it, then pretend that I’d never found it. But the more I read the more it somehow made me feel better.

You were just a child. You had boyfriend pants, brightly dyed hair, both of your nipples pierced, and your head tilted toward the world. Your sweet, flowing innocence was evident in every looped “l”, every dotted “i”, and every praise for an unsmoked cigarette.

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