I don’t know what I am meant to be.

I don’t know why the stars give me a feeling that is like a gravity well turning off in my chest that lets my heart float up into my head and makes it so easy to breathe. I don’t know why hearts were made so easy to break. I don’t know why it’s so hard to put them back together when they do. I don’t know why. I don’t know. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know who you will be. I don’t know why they have to be so hard, so demanding, so insane. I don’t know why I write, why writing does what it does to – for – me. I don’t know how it works.

I don’t.