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2015 by Kristina Haynes:
The year of quiet and yearning and music and dancing and touch and tender and giving. The year of bruises, fire, dresses that are too tight, lipstick stains on everything, fake lashes left on my best friend’s sister’s dresser, aching feet from walking twenty blocks on Halloween, smoking too many cigarettes that it’s embarrassing, that I should be dead, I am so sorry: lungs, body, forgive me. The year of cake and conversations about pop music and oh my god Kim still looks gorgeous with all that water weight. The year that I’m still not correcting people on how to spell my name but I’ll get there, this year or the next. The year of not needing to be something and finally just being. The year I developed a palette for coffee, absinthe, jazz. The year of moving on. The year of breaking things, of piecing them back together. The year when I stepped outside on a night where it just rained and rained and I let myself be consumed by it. The year I did not quiet anything about myself. The year that I lived open, honest, like a wound with no bandage. At least the air can get to it. At least the scar won’t heal ugly. Even if it does. The year I accepted that I am my father’s child and that I inherited his big clumsy heart. The year of lonely, the year I finally did something about it. The year the poems came out from under the bed, the closet, from beneath the floorboards, leaked out of the mirrors, put their tiny hands on me, said hush, said come here. The year of sleeping all day and up all night, the year of running, the year of staying, the year of cinnamon, salt, vanilla. The year of yes. The year of finally. And always, the year of love, so much love that I am dizzy up to my ears with it. The year I loved myself back, claimed myself back. The year I needed. The year I am most proud of. The year I could just kiss myself for.