There are parts of me that believe I shouldn’t have let go of things that I have, things that I have forgotten, every event and character that has shaped the malformed mirage of this ever-shifting identity. There’s a desire to over complicate and over analyze loss, and worst of all; to solidify it. To make it something to hold onto, to mould into a sillihoutte of a scorned woman, of a trope that’s so simple to mimic. I am the single reoccurring fault in my life, otherwise ideal. There’s no one where the self should reside, and that is my curse; I am my own.