This is how it works You're young until you're not You love until you don't You try until you can't You laugh until you cry You cry until you laugh

And everyone must breathe Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works You peer inside yourself You take the things you like And try to love the things you took And then you take that love you made And stick it into some Someone else's heart Pumping someone else's blood And walking arm in arm You hope it don't get harmed But even if it does You'll just do it all again

"On The Radio" Regina Spektor

I have secrets.

I want to write about them. Mostly because I can't forget about them. Things I've done, things I haven't, people I've known and kissed and loved, and dreams that have bounced around my brain that nobody has even seen.

I want to write about these things, but I can't. In some ways, I am always writing about them, in every last letter, because they are part of me, and I am in everything I put to print. But I can't bring myself to really set them on view, to let them exist in any form other than hidden meanings in twisted syllables.

But I want to.

I want to say, "I never lied to you, I just let you believe I did because it was easier for you to let go if you hated me" I want to say, "I regret giving up school for a marriage that never happened." I want to say, "I have a whirlwind of mixed feelings whenever I'm around people with children because of how close I came to having one." I want to tell the whole story of that child that wasn't, the night I took the test, how I finally had my moment of calm, quiet acceptance, and how I didn't tell anyone the truth, that I had a miscarriage, until years later. Not even my mother. I just let her believe it was only a scare, and went to the doctor to confirm it by myself, because it was easier for me to be alone than have to deal with someone else's feelings on the subject. I want to say, "I am still, in so many ways, so completely in love with you that it simultaneously destroys me and keeps me going."

I want to say these things. To write them in poetic prose, and have it be cathartic. I want to have new secrets, and write those too, so I can always feel as though I am coming closer to myself.

We'll see. We'll see. This is a start.