I’ve been told my way of loving is selfish.

No – no, it is not the same as last time and you can’t convince me that it is. If it is true that everything is lined up ahead of us, like in the stars, does that mean we have no agency? Is there a choice in who you meet? In how you meet them? How long you decide to stay at the party, or if you should have that extra cigarette, or the specific memories that you keep under your pillow? I keep dreaming certain things. Very strange things. A character within your face and his name. What does that say about me? I know I’ve never been very good at letting things go. The other day I could’ve cried over wilted spinach I had forgotten to use until it was too late. Slimy and formed into one depressing green lump at the bottom of the refrigerator drawer. How easy it is to let things die when you aren’t paying attention. He told me I was beautiful and I didn’t believe it. Isn’t that such a cliche. So wrapped up in loving. He hated whenever I took his picture and I loved it. I didn’t consider a view other than my own. I’ve been told my way of loving is selfish. All of my memories shaped to a particular liking. How about that.

Sierra Page is an American writer of poetry and fiction. Originally from the Midwest and living abroad in Brighton, England, she is currently earning a PhD in Postwar American literature. Her work has been previously published in Unbroken Journal and Blink-Ink.

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