My diary,
Its pages thick,
seizing words of my past--
first solitary decades of my life.
Verses not nearly chronicle
to anyone who may read them but myself.
My blood hardened into the seams.

It’s silly to see your old handwriting
silly to see claims of meant-to-be.
I was fourteen--
His hands in mine just felt so right,
I can call it my fairytale.
Young, oblivion.
warped by the idea belonging.

How romantic, how successful, how normal.
His love makes me strong and confident.
Fifteen, now.
Dominance crawled amongst my veins,
young girls of our society
pounded with the idea of adulation
to a man.

Tonight was majestic I had a bonfire
overlooking the mountains,
I rode my bike in the rain
all the way to the coffee shop.
Eighteen.
Passion flows out of my fingertips,
captivated by the little things in life.

And now,
I think it’s all extraneous--
I don’t think our initials are imprinted
into anything immortal.
Any initials, really.
That I need a person.
That women need men.

We are not star-crossed
we our own.
No dominance, no superiority--
just humanity.
Pure and in flesh.
Roaming a mutable universe,
that we did not create.

How wonderful it is,
to be utterly empowered.
To hold the world within your palms.
Bypass societal norms,
bypass gender norms.
To be able to say:
I do not need you,
To be me.