NOT READY
NOT READY... but I’m going anyway
Here we go again.
I thought I had closed this journal with the last tear, the last moan, the last “I love you” thrown into the void.
But no. It comes back. Always.
The words itch. The absence stings. And me, I bleed in black ink.
I’m an adult now, or so they say.
I have an apartment in my name, a paycheck that lands (sometimes late), taxes, welfare notifications, home insurance, a washing machine that curses at me with its beeping.
I have orgasms that feel sharper, mornings that blur faster, loves that burn without promise, pains that hide too well.
But deep down?
I’m still the same girl. The one waiting for something, without knowing what.
A look. A jolt. A finger slipping. A sentence no one ever dared to say.
Since the last page of this journal, I’ve lived. Really lived.
Not just nights out and quick shots of pleasure. I’ve met people. Real ones. Toxic ones. Beautiful ones.
I discovered the power you hold when you let go.
I understood you can love someone on your knees, raw, and still walk away in the morning.
Sometimes I thought maybe that was adulthood:
Choosing not to be afraid. Or being afraid, and going anyway.
Saying no. Saying “I came, thank you, goodbye.”
Saying “come”, even when you know it’ll end badly.
Today, I don’t define myself anymore. I live myself.
I’m the girl who takes the pill without setting an alarm.
Who gets wetter than her partners sometimes.
Who keeps her lovers’ voice notes like lifelines.
Who masturbates on Sunday at noon in broad daylight, without closing the blinds.
Who writes down everything silence can’t hold anymore.
So yes, this journal goes on. It shifts taste, shape, rhythm.
It’s no longer a survival journal. It’s an exploration.
I’ll lay it all down here: the failed fucks, the sublime encounters, the lows, the thrusts, the cold mornings, the letters never sent.
I’m a woman now. Not perfect. Not steady. But standing.
And if you want to know what it feels like, trying to become yourself…
Read.
