I Think I Love Myself

There’s an identity I tend to slip into.

She always knows exactly what to say. She explains her innermost thoughts eloquently. I yearn to be like her. She lives in her delusions, dreams in lattes, and keeps an airy hope brewing in her mind at all times.

I ache to be her.

I ache to be fully myself.

Sometimes I believe in signs from the universe, the small coincidences that feel like cheeky little winks. I believe in the spirals, the doubt, the midnight snacks, the “am I pretty” messages to strangers online. The assumptions. The acceptance. The constant questioning of who I am.

My life is a jumble of contradictions.

Stretching my wings feels like a workout. Painful. Awkward. Transformative.

There’s a hidden message in that, and hidden secrets that I carry with me.

So I love this wholesome persona.

She’s the part of me that longs to grow up, to outgrow the naivete, but is still exactly where she is meant to be.