I don’t remember who I wanted to be. I remember who I was,
day after day, waiting for something comforting, like the thought
that if I change the way I write, I will change the way I live,
or maybe the other way around, even though I knew it wouldn’t last
—it never does. By no means did I expect solace to be so cheap
yet unrequitable, like concessions made before turning off
the bedside lamp.