I guess I want to be happy. I know it’s not a destination, I don’t need to find it. I’m not going to travel the world searching for myself. I’m right here. I’ve been here this whole time, decaying inside of my own skin. Happiness is something that you have to work for, but I’m not ready to be happy. There’s still a lot of suffering I need to go through. I’m scared part of me doesn’t ever want to be happy. I like being a little broken. I hate the look in peoples eyes when I tell them why, but I like the mystery of myself. I like having terrible secrets to carry in my back pocket. I’ve dragged my body across the country, and little broken pieces of me have fallen out, leaving a trail. I’m the sum of those pieces. I can still feel them although they are far away. I’m a collection of all I have and all that I have lost. I’m every place I’ve ever been, every person I’ve ever met and every decision I’ve ever made.