To whoever loves me next,

I’m sorry if I’m afraid of you
or if days of flirting turn to
radio silence, without warning.

I’m sorry if I make you say the words
over and over and over until I believe them.
(I’m sorry if I don’t believe them.)

I will probably spend more time
worrying about losing you than I spend
trying to keep you.
Trouble is,
every single time I’ve ever thought
something was too good to be true–
I’ve been right.

Understand,
I will know how to be vulnerable with you,
but I won’t know how not to regret it.
And I have no idea how deep we’ll be
into this relationship before I admit
I’ve never done this before.
Not really.
Not in any way that counts.

Before I admit that I know
how to put my body inside someone else’s
but not how to make it beautiful.

I probably won’t be easy to love.
Too many people loved me badly,
I’m not sure I know how
to do it right.

This year,

I will buy countless journals and colorful pens and 500 page novels instead of buying that skirt he said “makes my ass look nice.”

I will go out with my friends and buy them coffee and laugh at an awful romantic comedy with happy tears in my eyes instead of laying on my couch with a boy.

I will experiment with myself and cut my bangs and dye my hair my favorite color without having anyone nag me about how I look like their ex-girlfriend.

I will cry as much as I need to and hold my own hand because I will love myself more than anyone else ever will.

This year, I’ll find myself again.