This isn't a list of confessions.
I was late for curfew, I like being alone, and I'm afraid of commitment
but
this isn't a list of confessions.
It's the nights without sleep and the wet grass and the barefoot car rides,
it's your #1 snapchat favorite and the birthday texts and the gum wrappers on the floor in your car,
the broken eyeliner pencils, the raspy voices, the cracked phone screens, and the notes you keep in your drawer by your bed.
It's 11:57 and mom asks where I've been all night.
I don't want to come home but I don't want to move out and I'm tired of asking permission for things you don't understand.
I would tell you that, but
this isn't a list of confessions.
It's the sound of my feet dragging on the way to the seminary building and the sleeping pill bottles I've emptied on my dresser.
On. My. Dresser.
It's Burgess Park and Tara Johnson's pool and 10:17 AM,
the inescapable and the ruthless and the underappreciated,
the teachers who prepare lessons for the kids that don't care because their parents already planned out their future for them,
so they stare out the window holding empty brown lunch sacks wondering "what if".
It's the
simplicity.
the times that we lie to ourselves enough and eventually start to believe it through repetition like our summer playlists or our favorite snow cone flavor,
our dreams. our aspirations. our fears.
It's my favorite pair of jeans from Levi's and the fact that I hate the color yellow but love
gold.
The fact that I'm 18 years old and still don't have my ears pierced.
It's the apologies that I never delivered and the forgiveness I never got the chance to give
or maybe the forgiveness that doesn't exist in me anymore.
It's the people I disappointed.
It's the compliments and the promises we never really planned on keeping and the people we fell for too fast or too long
or
not. long. enough.
but
it's not a list of confessions.
It's the promises we kept because they changed us.
our regrets.
prolonged eye contact.
the fact that I hate starbursts.
skipping second period.
concert tickets.
empty perfume bottles.
and my high school diploma.
-Bonnie