I wrote this over the Pacific

Dear you,

I think I scowl more than I used to.

I’m not sure what at - maybe it’s just this weather, maybe it’s a headache, maybe I’m just squinting because I forgot my sunglasses, maybe I need to eat something. (I probably should eat something.) Maybe it’s because I’m twenty one years old and I still live at home,

dear you, dear me, dear god

I’m afraid my face will permanently wrinkle like that.

That the wandering gaze of the flight attendant will glance over at me now and know, just know, that negativity seeps out of my every pore, flooding this pressurized tin can like a goddamn tuna sandwich, and we all know that smell is hard to get out,

do you get that?

I’m scared of becoming my father, and I know that’s not unusual; but I’ve never been able to read a self help book cover to cover, and I don’t like what that says about me,

I hope you can get that

I used to always call myself a 'realist'. It seemed smart, down to earth. Healthy even. And that’s how I want people to see me, honestly. But I’m starting to think every 'realist' is actually just a pessimist with facts, and don’t @ me

I’ve been trying to learn how to enjoy things lately, the process of things. Self care especially. I don’t enjoy eating, or brushing my teeth, or taking my hormones, or the walk from my bed to the shower. I loathe them. I mean, I’m over here sorting my sour patch kids by flavor and eating them from worst to best because I don’t know how to relax and I’m scared as hell of disappointment,

but I’m working on it, yeah?

I hope I don’t turn out to be a scowler.

I grimace at the thought of it.