Seven days ago, I quit smoking.
Seven days ago, the Supreme Court of the United States ruled in favor of same-gender marriage.
Seven days ago, my sister shaved my head.
The first time I started smoking, I was a teenager voluntarily trapped in a psych ward.
The first time I realized same-gender marriage could be possible was the first time I could legally vote. I didn’t.
The first time I shaved my head, my mother was still dying from cancer. She did.
Nine days ago, a nurse told me that I have high-grade precancerous cells inside my vaginal canal.
Nine days ago, my ex-girlfriend left me a voicemail that said: “Remember me?” She doesn’t understand that my love for her overlaps together and apart.
Nine days ago, I was growing out my hair.
First, on the phone with the nurse, I cried about losing my insurance to capitalism.
Then, on the phone with the nurse, I cried about wanting to birth another child.
I still haven’t cried about wanting to keep living. To keep living.
Today, I had lunch with a stranger.