victoria day in toronto

unideal circumstances brought me there, but i thought to make the best of it.

we met up in the cool of the evening and explored your neighbourhood.

it was victoria day, and together we walked through cazsimir gzowski park.

i'd have spent all night on the boardwalk with you, watching the fireworks.

untitled, pt. 1

i've bought a bunch of shirts that don't fit me
and a pair of wingtips with a busted heel
i disassemble old televisions on my days off
and i feel the cool summer breeze on my skin

you face me with your back to sherbrooke st
my sweater is itchy and has holes in its seam
today i write everything down meticulously
sheets of paper scattered around the apartment

i learn to like my job as a stenographer
and i make notes to myself every day
i listen to the voices on the breeze this winter
and i hear what they have to say to me

note to self:

being kind pays off after all

dear diary

it's been years and i still have nightmares.

i find consolation in change. it brings me comfort to imagine you wouldn't recognize me if you saw me today.

still, sometimes i think about what i had and what i lost. some nights it makes me want to cry. some nights i do.

i find desperation like my own in the last dying scream in 'translating the name.'

i'm embarrassed by my mistakes and i yearn to feel understood.

i worry my actions will haunt me. i wish that i could have done differently. i want to curl up in a ball and sob.

at least i look good today.

the midwest in retrospect

i remember november first, twenty-fifteen

i remember being hospitalized

and i recall what happened after, but the events leading up to it are much foggier.

the only visitor to my room was the cop who had booked me in october for being a stupid teenager.

that year, i had dreamed of running away:

i would move to vermont or somewhere, far away from everyone i knew

and i would change my name and let my hair grow

and i would stop trying to be someone else

my great american midwest teenage story ended

when i moved back to barrhaven

and the reality of my less than ideal situation hit me full force.

today, i live in the best possible version of that dream

separated from the people who hurt me by miles and miles

without ever having to give up myself.

i don’t need to keep suffering for my story to be worth living.

i deserve community and love and belonging.

and i am home.

growing up

as a child i learned that my pain and trauma were only valid if what i had experienced was worse than what anyone around me had ever experienced. growing up means allowing myself to feel that pain without the need for external validation.

a letter to me

hi.

i write you from the leafcovered streets of montreal.

you are younger. 

things are not stable and they may not be for a while. but things do get better. you find family in the winter. next summer you’ll have an apartment all to yourself. you’ll be isolated—but don’t worry, we’ll all be isolating (you’ll understand in time).

in the fall you and an old friend will both be living a short walk from one other in côte-des-neiges, and two more won’t be far behind. remember that you have friends and that they’re there for you even when you feel alone.

leaves fall and crisp and crunch under my boots and the weather drops to freezing by the end of october. soon you will be exactly who you want to be in the city that welcomed you with open arms.

things are looking up for us.

H.L.