December 14, 2012

The front door opened. It was quick—panicked, the sound of it traveling up the staircase as similar steps followed suit. The room door swung open and I was surprised to see my mom. Face stained with tears, still in her work clothes. She should’ve been there at that moment. But she wasn’t.

Her eyes immediately landed on me and my brother, sitting on a bed as both of us were home sick from school. Before I knew it, her arms wrapped around us.

“Mom? What’s wrong?” I asked.

Her grip loosened but she kept us close, as if guarding my brother and me from the outside world. Her eyes flickered between the two of us, her gaze feeling like reassurance for herself. She needed to see her kids in front of her.

She breathed deeply, unable to bear the weight any longer.

“There was a shooting at an elementary school.”

6 staff members.

20 children.

All I could think about was how that was the same size as my class.

Before they are ever born, children are seen as valuable.

Valuable enough to become the catalyst for restrictions against women’s bodies. Valuable enough to overlook the crime of rape in the hopes of bringing more life into the world. Valuable enough to use them as human shields to save political careers.

But not valuable enough to enforce stronger gun regulations. Not valuable enough to stop wars. Not valuable enough to use our tax dollars towards universal care—for those that do want to have them. And, most apparent, not valuable enough to lock up pedophiles. No instead we’ll have them run the government. The world even.

Because nobody wants to hurt kids, right?

Children are not valuable. They’re profitable. They create an opportunity for more.

More people to do labor. More people to send to senseless wars. More people to step on to get to the top. More to exploit. More pawns in the game.

So why isn’t society protecting their precious commodity? We just don’t care anymore.

A headless child held to the sky by their father as Gaza crumbles around them. Guttural and potent screams of anguish. Visceral. The tears won’t stop.

Next post: Signatures of politicians inscribed across the outer shells of bombs. They’re being shipped to the war zone. Signed weapons of mass destruction as if they’re a page in a fucking yearbook.

Oh wait! You weren’t supposed to see that.

Here’s an apartment tour. Slime. The latest style trends. What foods have the most fiber. Go here for vacation. No use this moisturizer and this sunscreen. Here’s a funny cat video. You HAVE to try this new recipe. And buy this couch too while you’re at it!

Did you forget?

*

Thousands of documents from the Epstein files were release after months of waiting. Our president’s name appears more times than God is mentioned in the bible. Abhorrent testimonies recounting insidious crimes against children—against humanity.

Surely Congress will do something—

“Follow along as I try to go analog in 2026! The Brick has really helped me with lowering my screentime. The world and social media can be a lot right now and I want to take care of my mental health—”

Did You Forget?

*

His blue bunny hat the same color as a bright blue sky, Liam Ramos stands surrounded by ICE agents, teared stained face, only five years old. He is later sent to a Texas detention facility with his father. Only five years old.

Did you hear how Bad Bunny is performing at the Super—

Forget.

*

A US Tomahawk missile hits the Shajareh Tayyebeh Girls Elementary School in Minab, Iran. 175 were killed. Over a hundred of them schoolchildren. Little girls.

The US government won’t take responsibility.

HARRY STYLES!!!!!!! NEW ALBUM OUT NOW!!!!!!!!!!

…

…

…

…

You forgot didn’t you?

Short term pain for long term gain. The latest phrase coined by the Republican party and FOX News. That all of this will be worth it in the end.

You’re all cowards. And I’m tired of everyone sitting around like this is normal.

Where is the anger? Where is the outcry?

Protests on the weekends can only do so much. It’s large in numbers because nobody is disrupting or missing work to be there.

But I understand. It’s a hard time for everybody. What can you do?

Their names will be echoed across the internet, only until the newest trend takes over. We live in the algorithm of silence.

I want to bury my feelings until they boil in my blood, 
hardening like a diamond until they shatter completely.

He will leave and nothing will change.

Instead, I write. 
Words never spoken unless forced. 
Cryptic yet all-knowing.

My heart walks outside of my body. Static. Sick with greed.
I am. I am. I am.

s. m. b.

My love is soft. It doesn’t roar like thunder or pounce with lust. It lives quietly in the spaces it’s allowed and waits patiently. Though, begrudgingly at times. 

Its heart races at the slightest hand hold. It thinks to ask for more but never does. It dreams fiercely and moves slowly. It never shouts.

You can hold it in the palm of your hand and crush it between two fingers. 

It’s innocent, naive, and hasn’t matured with age.

All it wants is to see itself reflected in others.

s. m. burke

soon the bed that sits in my childhood bedroom 
will take up space in a tiny unaffordable apartment.

my parents will move to warmer states, 
and New England will feel less and less like home.

no longer will my mind wander to who needs help
and my feet race to meet the thought.

it's muscle memory. asking to do dinner or chores
all while others crowd around screens and forget.

Even on my birthday.

I have the look of a domesticated animal.
A dog left sitting in the rain.

What will I do now?
Who will I show my worth to?
What do I have to prove?

s. m. burke

P.S. the domesticated animal line was inspired by the last line of Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica. I read it at the beginning of 2025 and it’ll be engraved in my brain forever (I think it’s the most fucked up book I’ve ever read).

“What’s you’re favorite position?” J asked as she read aloud the card. We were playing Sip or Spill at our table, the restaurant bustling with music as forks and knives clattered against plates. It was our first girls trip, the three of us out in a town we’ve never been to, taking the opportunity to learn more about each other after nearly a decade of friendship.

“Well we can’t do this one…” J says, her eyes locking onto mine as her hand drifted to put the card in the used pile.

“Wait!” I stopped her short. “I mean, I have one in mind.” My cheeks flushed. It could’ve been the alcohol, but I’ve always acted like this. Flashes of sex scenes invaded my mind. Breaths heavy. Naked bodies. I didn’t dare think of the stuff I’d seen in porn. Only one felt safe to admit: “I’ve always thought missionary was romantic. You know, cuz you’re looking at each other.”

God I’m vanilla.

Em smiled and agreed with me, both her and J nodding their heads. We continued around the table, them sharing more experienced answers. I got to hear the spectrum of my sexuality. J’s answer was more heteronormative at first, Em explained what she liked to do with girls, which then made J talk about her experiences as well. Even our waiter got in on it, asking about the game and J pulling a card for him. Would you do a threesome with any of your friends’ parents? He thought about it for a second and then answered yes. We erupted in laughter.

Part of me felt like a fraud.

It’s no secret that I have never been physically close with anyone. Intimate. Hooked up. Had sex. Whatever you want to call it. I’m a virgin, to state the obvious. (It’s why you’re reading this, right?)

I’ve never liked to think of myself as a prude, someone uncomfortable with the idea of sex or sexual situations. I have no problem talking about sex when it’s something that’s separate from myself. Books, movies, tv, my friends’ love lives. But when it’s me, I get overwhelmed. My heart pounds in my ears even at the slightest hand hold. I think I’d spontaneously combust if it came down to the real thing—and not the good kind.

I’m not exactly sure where this fear—if that’s even the right word—came from. I can’t pinpoint a situation that would’ve caused it. I’d never gotten anywhere close to that with people I dated. And maybe that’s the problem. My inexperience. But the anticipation of it is agonizing.

Maybe it’s me thinking no one could see me in that light. I don’t feel like a sexual being. I don’t exude this effortless sexiness that draws people in like a moth to a flame. I’ll walk through stores like Victoria’s Secret and feel so other from the lingerie on the mannequins, never able to picture myself in them, never able to think of anyone who would ever want to see that. Even after masturbating, I used to get embarrassed. Though, that’s since stopped.

I’ve become more comfortable with knowing how to make my body feel good. To bask in the aftermath of it, feeling my chest heave up and down as sweat glistens on my forehead. The warmth and heat of it all, all made from me, from knowing what I want. The thought of letting someone into that world is terrifying.

While playing another card game on our trip, We’re Not Really Strangers, I got to ask the question: If you didn’t know me, what would be your first impression?

Em said I looked English as she giggled and pointed at my turquoise mock neck.

J said, “You look like a virgin,” to which she quickly added, “not that that’s a bad thing!” She continued, saying something akin to “whoever you finally end up with will love it.” You know. Cuz I’m tight.

It was a knife to the gut hearing her say that. I almost felt angry. Not at her, not because she called me a virgin, but for making me think of this veiled person who will inevitably take my virginity. Like I’m some conquest. A prize. A tally on their docket. It made being a virgin more about someone else rather than it being about me. And what do I get? A sore pussy and some potential bleeding? How is that something to look forward to?

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The term “virgin” has always held negative connotations. Inexperienced. Unwanted. Unloveable. Even though some view it as a pure thing, a thing to be protected, it’s more of a burden than anything else. Like a personal grudge against intimacy.

It’s a thing I’ve held onto for so long, that I don’t know what I look like without it.

My friends have said, when I have sex for the first time, they’ll know. I won’t even have to say it. Will it be something with my face? Manner of walking? How I carry myself? I don’t know. I never noticed anything different about them when they told me. And they had to tell me. It wasn’t this mystical telepathic thing where I looked at them one day and said “OH MY GOD YOU DEFINITELY HAD SEX!” They told me. Which is probably what I’ll do when it happens. Probably over text. And they’ll probably see me afterwards and say “wow you look different.” Which will probably be true. Probably.

But not being sexually active with other people also feels like an invalidation of my own sexuality. How do you know you’re bi if you’ve never been with anyone? Being called a virgin yields a double entendre of prudish and queer shame.

I know I’m physically attracted to more than one gender. Does that make me greedy? Desperate? A virgin whore? People like to think so. The biphobia so casually spoken in our day and age pisses me off to no end. If I’m with a man, I’m straight. If I’m with a woman, I’m a lesbian. People like to see sexuality as this finite measure rather than the fluidity it is.

It’s like I’m constantly in a state of wincing, waiting for the moment I tell people I’ve had sex for the first time. If it’s with a girl, I know comments like “that wasn’t really sex” and “you didn’t really lose your virginity” will be thrown around. And I think that’s what irks me more than anything. The idea of virginity being so engrained in patriarchal society that when a sapphic woman says they had sex for the first time, a person’s brain short circuits. Because that can’t be true. It’s not the same. Right? Wrong.

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Having not yet had sex with anyone, my first time getting a pap smear is burned in my brain forever. The pain. How hard I squeezed the nurse’s hand as she tried to comfort me through it. “Just try to relax.” HOW CAN I? My free hand braced the cushion beneath me as my entire body seemed to involuntarily tense up.

I used to be so appalled about my doctor being a man. What gives him the right to be the first person to see EVERYTHING? Why does he have to be the first man to—you know. Fun fact: he was also my mom’s doctor when she was pregnant with me.

Afterwards, the plastic sheet beneath me was drenched in sweat. I felt dizzy. The color must’ve been drained from my face since the nurse asked if I was alright. Her face reminded me of a concerned mother’s. “I’m just really sweaty,” I told her. Which was true. She told me to go sit and have some water in the lobby, to relax.

The dispenser was out of cups and I wasn’t about to shove my face under the nozzle to relieve myself.

I cried in my car. Something so visceral. It started as uncomfortable laughter but then the tears wouldn’t stop. I talked to myself. Shouting about how I hated being a woman. I felt odd. Defiled. No, that wasn’t right. I was completely safe. Nothing untoward occurred. It was all medically sound. But my body felt different. I felt different. And I hated it.

More than anything, I want to be comfortable with my body. I want it to feel loved. Desired. The highest of highs. I deserve it. But it’s as if I’m at war with myself. I want to experience things, but there’s this other side of me—the more dominant part it seems—that fears crossing over that line. Like I’m not allowed to. Like something bad will happen if I do.

I know I could never do a one night stand. Especially not with a complete stranger. My germaphobia wouldn’t allow that. And at the same time, I want to feel connected to the person I’m with. To know that I’m wanted and that I want them just as much.

But also, as Charlotte York put it:

It’s this never ending cycle, one I don’t know how to break myself out of. Maybe the right person would change things. But as of right now, I only have me.

Yes, I’m twenty-five and a virgin, and I’m still trying to decide if that’s a good or a bad thing.

I surrender myself to you.
fictitious tireless lechery
passing over me in fervent fevers of want.

am I not a being of desire?
submitting to frivolous pastimes
in the age of detachment.

who will fulfill my needs? 
be the personified tally of expectations?

hold me close. let me feel your warmth.

I was to be born in passionate times.
what happened to my love?

s. m. burke

This is a long one, buckle up. Writing this stirred up so many emotions. I’m mad at myself to this day.

Fall Semester, 2019

I clung to my roommate’s arm as I found my balance. My feet were foreign to me, the wheels strapped to them made me feel like a toddler learning how to walk. I was one of two in our trio that wanted to skate, my roommate sitting on the sidelines while me and her friend from home rolled on. People crowded the benches and shiny wooden floors of the roller rink, the incoming freshmen taking over the local mall in an orientation event called Mall Madness. A night to let loose before the first week of classes.

I twitched with anticipation, steadying myself along the half-wall boundary of the rink. The wheels underneath me rocked back and forth, their direction turning and spinning with my legs. I tried to ease myself into it, remaining focused on moving forward rather than falling back. I’d been rollerblading before, ice skating too, how different could this be?

With a big grin, I launched myself off the wall, falling into a slow rhythm. I counted in my head: Left. Right. Left. Right, moving my feet with each step. The music pulsed through my skates, pop songs blasting over the speakers, vibrating the air. I rounded the bend of my first lap, feeling giddy as I got the hang of it. Definitely harder than rollerblading, but not the worst thing in the world.

Blinded by my glee—and general cockiness—my core shifted, gravity pushing me backwards and quickly humbling me. I stumbled as my arms shot out on either side, begging to find balance, the dread of my imminent fall hammering through me like the wind had already been knocked out. I prepared an apology to my tailbone.

Thankfully, I caught myself, my feet planting firmly on the floor as I bent my knees and slowly rolled forward. I breathed out freely. It was hard not to laugh at myself.

But in my quick panic, in the commotion of my stress, something else caught my eye. Across the rink, in the purple-hued lights, I saw a boy. His hair made of tight curls, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and a fearful expression turning to relief on his face. He caught himself too. We were like mirrored images, regaining our balance in tandem, saved from embarrassment.

Our gazes connected and my heart skipped. Genuinely. Something so palpable I felt like I would fall again.

It was the sort of look you did to check if anyone else saw what happened. And they did. I did. He did. We did.

With an elated smile, I raised two thumbs up at him, nodding my head. It was a quick motion, one filled with contentment for us both. His smile matched mine as he returned the gesture, both of us laughing at each other across the way. It was the first connection I made here without words, something so simple that made me feel alive.

I bounced off the half-wall as I stationed myself next to my roommate, whispering dizzied giggles as I pointed him out discreetly in the crowd.

“That’s my future husband,” I joked.

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A week passed and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. My campus was huge, a city in itself; the odds of seeing him were slim—but not impossible. He had left before I had the chance to go up to him and ask for his name, number, anything really. The image of him in the dim lighting of the roller rink spun in my mind. I didn’t have any leads. No major, no minor, nothing. Can you guess someone’s major just by how they look?

I scrolled through on-campus events, searching for one that maybe he’d potentially attend. Not that I had anything to really go off of. I only knew that he maybe liked rollerskating.

But one caught my eye, almost glaringly obvious: Public skate at the ice rink. What are the chances…

Two of my friends came with, one clinging to the wall while the other stood by to assist if need be. I was surprisingly steady on my feet, having only two points of balance to worry about instead of eight wheels. I scanned the crowd, looking for anything familiar. I don’t know what I was expecting. I had no way of knowing that he’d even be here.

Like a breeze, he skated past me, our eyes meeting for only a second. He didn’t recognize me, I didn’t see the recollection on his face, so he continued in his lap.

“That’s him!”

My friends’ heads whipped around. I pointed him out as he rounded the other end of the rink. He was much better at ice skating than me.

The night I saw him, my hair was down, tucked behind my ears and cascading over my shoulders. Now, it sat pulled back in a ponytail, my round facial structure on full display, nowhere close to how he would remember me. If at all. I pulled the elastic from the top of my head, untying my hair in a quick fashion. I parted it down the middle using my fingers, tucking a few pieces behind my ears. My friends gave me a once over and nodded when I situated myself.

My breath staggered out. Unsteady? Excited? There was no time to think.

As he approached, I stood near the wall, catching his eye. The moment his gaze locked onto mine, I raised my thumbs, my smile dumb and goofy, mimicking what I did that night as I put all my hope into this one gesture.

Instantly, his eyes widen and his smile grew. My heart soared.

He pulled in next to me and I finally got to hear his voice.

“I thought that was you,” I said.

He told me his name and I told him mine. This was all I needed.

I wasn’t sure when the next time I’d see him would be. Our conversation at the ice rink was short. Awkwardly adorable as my friends would put it. I didn’t have a plan. I pretty much blacked out, basically only saying that I wanted to say hi and introduce myself since I didn’t get the chance before. We said we’d hope to see each other around campus.

But I knew his name now, so that felt like a win.

Clubs and activities began picking up, calling for newcomers to join. I had done theater previously in high school so it felt like the right place to start. I went to auditions for the fall play. Needless to say, I didn’t hear back. Frankly, it took a shot to my ego. Maybe theater wasn’t for me anymore, but something else quickly caught my attention: College Radio. A couple of my friends were also interested.

As the orientation meeting approached, my imposter syndrome crept in. Maybe it was the failed audition, maybe it was me still not really knowing who I was, but as the bus pulled up to our stop, I told my friends that I’d see them back at the dorm.

“You sure?” They asked.

I nodded, telling them to let me know how it went and I’ll join them at the next meeting if I change my mind.

The bus pulled away and I watched them walk towards the entrance of the building. My heart ached. I was mad at myself. I hated not knowing what I wanted. This was the perfect time to try out new things and I was holding myself back.

But as I sat mentally beating myself up, my phone buzzed on my lap. The screen lit up.

SYDNEY. HE’S HERE.

I ran off the bus, two stops down from where I originally was supposed to get off. My Doc Martens pounded against the pavement as my feet barreled me forward on the sidewalk. I nearly slammed into a group of students exiting the building. The meeting was downstairs; I headed towards the escalators. The motion of it gave me the boost that I needed as I essentially jumped down them.

A large group gathered in a circle outside one of the meeting rooms, the club about to start. I slid in next to my friends, out of breath and trying to look composed.

“Did you run here?” One of them asked.

They didn’t need to point him out. On the other side of the circle, there he stood, standing with his friend I recognized from the ice rink. I swallowed hard as I finally caught my breath. I bit the inside of my cheek to tame the smile growing across my face.

He noticed me. I watched his mouth twitch, the corners of his lips curling. Act natural, I told myself. Be cool.

I spent the whole meeting stealing glances at him. He sat a couple rows ahead in the section next to mine. At the end, as people started filing out, my friends corralled me into getting the spot in line behind him. I was sweating bullets. My friends’ eyes bulged with excitement as they stared at us. I must’ve said something to them that was loud enough for him to hear since he glanced back towards me. He smiled and my heart did a somersault.

We walked side by side, talking the whole way out. Up the escalators, down the hall, through the doors, and continued as we stepped out into the night’s cool air. Maybe it was the adrenaline pumping through me, maybe it was my nerves only making me be able to focus on one thing—on him—but it felt like it was just us. Even surrounded by our friends.

My dorm was at the top of the hill, a completely separate part of campus from him. As we approached a good spot between the two, we said our goodbyes and waved each other off. I glanced back at him as we parted. If memory serves, he did the same. Even with my legs aching from the multiple staircases of my ascent, I felt like I was on Cloud 9.

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After the next radio meeting, we walked together again, our conversation coming so naturally. I don’t remember the exact topics that came up, all I knew is that I felt comfortable. Excited. I used to get really in my head talking to boys. This felt easy.

We approached the same parting point as last time. As I began to say goodbye, he stopped me, asking for my Snapchat (RIP). I gave it to him happily. We parted smiling and I turned to follow my friend up the first set of stairs. After only a few steps, I couldn’t contain my excitement.

“YES!” I cheered, practically jumping in the air.

I didn’t know if he was far enough away at that point to not hear me. I didn’t care. I honestly hoped he did.

We talked constantly, sending pictures back and forth, telling each other about our day. I honestly just wanted to see his face. The messages were cute, eventually leading to us making plans to meet up. I can’t tell you how many walks we went on. We would yap through the streets and woods, pretty much talking about everything. Our majors, our goals, where we grew up, our families, how he went to the sister school of my Dad’s high school. We had a lot in common.

On one of our walks, we ended up in downtown—mind you, downtown was a good ways away from campus on foot. We found our way into a boba shop since he mentioned he liked it. I had personally never had it before and was a bit panicked on what to get. I ended up buying something strawberry flavored. He got Oolong Milk Tea with tapioca bubbles.

As we walked back—we could’ve taken the bus but it never even crossed our minds—I sipped at my sweet concoction. I said it was good. Not the best, but good (though I didn’t admit that at the time).

“Do you want to try mine?” He asked.

“Oh, sure! You can try mine too if you want.”

His drink was better. Way better. My face said it all. He chuckled as my eyes went wide.

“Wow that’s good.”

“You can have it if you want.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, this is good,” he motioned to my drink. “I don’t mind.” His eyes had stars in them, the kind that flickered in the sunlight, even in the evening glow.

I couldn’t contain my smile. “Thanks.”

As we continued towards campus, my mind swirled endlessly, thinking about how we indirectly shared a kiss.

We hung out more and more. One of our first meet ups was at a Climate Change rally on campus. I forgot to wear sunscreen and was red for days, but nothing aloe couldn’t help with.

In October, we went to go see Joker (2019) with our friends, stopping by Target beforehand to kill time. I took a video of all of us together, sitting next to a Bullseye statue. I can’t tell you how many times I rewatched that video after the fact. We sat next to each other in the theater, leaning over to whisper when something came to mind. The side of me that he sat on felt like it was on fire during the whole movie.

But living among thousands of other students, it was inevitable for me to catch a cold.

My head felt like it weighed eighty-pounds and I couldn’t breathe. My mom told me to take Mucinex but I just didn’t have the energy to go to the store. As I sat, wallowing in my sick agony, my roommate had an idea.

“You could ask him to get something for you.”

I shot up in bed, my head wobbling like a bobblehead. The thought occurred to me but I didn’t want to bother him. But I became DESPERATE.

I texted him (I’m not sure when we switched from Snapchat to regular phone numbers). I made it clear he didn’t have to. He immediately said yes and told me to send him a screenshot of what I needed. The dorm buzzed with mine and my roommate’s anticipation. My heart felt like it was pounding through my chest. I couldn’t breathe, in more ways than one. I think I sat on the floor of my closet at one point.

It didn’t take long before he texted me that he was here. From our window, my roommate and I were able to see the front of our building. There he was, standing beside the door. I threw on my slippers, giving a panicked look to my roommate before racing out and down the stairs. I probably should've taken the elevator in my state, but I didn’t care.

I opened the door to him holding Mucinex in one hand and some mini Snickers candy in the other. I had mentioned to him before that it was my favorite candy. I damn near fell to my knees.

He handed me them with a smile and before I knew it, my arms were around him. I hugged him once, twice, thanking him again and again.

“Thank you, seriously.”

“Of course,” he told me.

We smiled at each other and said our goodbyes, me hugging him one last time before I walked back into my building. I ran back up the stairs, swinging open my dorm room door. My roommate spun around from her spot at the window. I shut the door behind me and slid down to the floor, showing her the Snickers in my hand. We both shrieked like little school girls.

“OH MY GOD,” I practically yelled, kicking my feet against the cold tile floor beneath me.

“I’m living vicariously through you,” my roommate said.

It was hard not to tell my mom everything that was happening. I called her weekly, updating her on my newfound college life and everything in between. Of course she asked about my love life. And I told her about him. How sweet he was, how much we had in common, how happy he made me by just standing there.

I’d never been in an actual relationship before. I always found something wrong with it. Something always severed the connection before anything happened. Whether that be not making it past the crush stage, saying that they’re flattered but not interested, the energy fizzling out as soon as the chase was over, them saying it’s better to just stay friends, or (my favorite) them kissing me—my first kiss, mind you—and then saying that they’re not ready for a relationship.

So when I told my mom all these amazing first experiences I was having, I felt like I finally sounded like a person my age.

“That’s great, honey!” she said. “He sounds like he’d be a good starter boyfriend!”

Starter?

I know she didn’t mean any harm by it, and that the wording probably wasn’t as deep as I was taking it. She probably didn’t even anticipate what saying that would do to me. But he and I just started dating at that point, if you would even call it that. No labels. Just getting to know each other. But with that simple phrase, starter boyfriend, I began to fear what I’ve always feared, what always makes me run in the other direction: The End. The possibility of it. And now its roots have sunk their teeth into the crevices of my mind. All when it was just starting to get good.

I tried desperately to shake it off.

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It was December when we went on our first real date.

I bundled myself up and hiked down the hill towards the Old Chapel on campus. The radio was hosting a small concert for local artists. He asked me to go and I of course said yes.

I vividly remember listening to Lewis Capaldi’s album, Divinely Uninspired To A Hellish Extent, as I walked. I’ve always love listening to sad love ballads even when I’m the happiest I can be. Nothing seems to top the raw emotion. Hold Me While You Wait played in my ears. Looking back, the irony of the lyrics is not lost on me.

I stood outside Old Chapel, swaying to my music as I waited for him. The glint of his glasses caught one of the street lights and I smiled as he came into view. Nothing else mattered. I push down any thoughts I might’ve had, anything the music might’ve stirred up, and walked to meet him.

Winter break was quickly approaching, as was our second date. The one I cherish the most.

We went to another boba shop downtown. One he liked better. This time felt way more like a date than the indie concert. I folded my straw wrapper over and over again while we chatted. On top of the table too. I was not hiding my nerves well.

My roommate had gone home for the weekend. I had the room to myself. The thought of it lingered in the back of my mind as we sat there talking. When planning what we’d do tonight, I told him after boba we could watch a movie back at my place. Tangled. He’d never seen it and it was (is) my favorite Disney movie.

We finished our drinks and headed to the bus stop. As we waited, the bus leading to the mall showed up first. In a split second decision, he looked at me and said: “Do you want to go?” I loved the spontaneity. We hopped on without a second thought, our shoulders against each other the whole ride over.

We ended up in Barnes and Noble. Me being an English major, I thought this was my chance to impress him with my literature knowledge. That was until I read out the title for Neal Shusterman’s Scythe as “SKY-TH” and he nicely said, “Do you mean scythe?” I wanted to curl up into a ball and die. I’d never seen the word written out before then.

He helped me quickly recover by showing me the witch section—which I never knew existed. We each picked up a book, browsing through potions and spells. It just so happened the first thing I opened to was a love spell. I read the random words aloud.

“What’s that mean?” he asked.

I quickly shut the book. “Uh I don’t know. Something weird I guess.”

My chest was tight. I tried to push the feeling down. I was getting flustered. My mom’s words knocked at my mind. I hid my red cheeks as I scanned the other titles.

It had snowed earlier in the week, mountainous piles scattering the parking lots. I veered away from our path to the bus stop, heading towards one of the snow mounds. I said I couldn’t remember the last time I tried climbing one of these. He appeared in front of me, taking the first couple of steps up before holding out his hand. I took it willingly. Our fingers remained locked together the rest of the way.

At my dorm, my heart pounded loud in my ears. I made sure the room was organized before he came. His eyes lit up as he looked around at the space. There was a small shake in my voice as I pointed out books on my shelves and other trinkets strewn about. Among the books sat a large leather notebook, the one I used to plan out my high-fantasy novel I was (and still am) writing. With excitement, I grabbed it and showed him some of the pages I did, different map sketches and notes I had.

He seemed so interested in everything I was saying. I felt like I was going to explode.

“So do you want to watch Tangled?”

We sat on my bed as if it were a couch, legs hanging off while our backs were against the wall. Throughout the movie, I slowly inched closer to him by sliding down and laying my back more on the bed than the wall. My head leaned in his direction but never quite met him. He felt so far away. I could understand if he was trying to be gentlemanly and not touch me unless I said, but I half expected to cuddle. That never happened though. I occasionally looked up at him, seeing his reactions, that he was smiling. At least I knew he liked the movie.

When it was over, he put on his jacket and I stood near the door. I thanked him for tonight, wrapping my arms around him. He felt so warm. As I pulled away, I planted a quick kiss on his cheek. The surprise was obvious on his face. He smiled and began to lean in. I wasn’t sure if he was going to do the same as me or ACTUALLY kiss me so in a silent panic, I moved my head in a way that only allowed him to kiss my cheek.

“Get back safe” I told him. “Text me.”

“I will.” He smiled.

The door shut and I fell to my knees. Nerves trembled through my entire body. I was hot, sweating, and out of breath. My head fell into my hands and I mushed my face into my palms.

I texted my friend.

ME: he just left

HER: DID YOU KISS?

ME: I KISSED HIM ON THE CHEEK. I WAS TOO SCARED

HER: GO GET YOUR MAN

I knew how right she was. I knew that this was what everything was leading up to. And I hated it. But I probably wouldn’t see him again until after the break. And I couldn’t just sit there.

With a loud huff, I pulled up his contact.

ME: how far away are you?

HIM: Almost about to head down the hill. Why?

ME: stay there

I’ve never put my slippers on faster. I didn’t even grab a coat.

The freezing December air decked me in the face but my feet only got faster. I ran, ran for everything I was feeling and everything I hoped to feel.

He was standing in the middle of the road, his smile bright as day.

“Sorry, I forgot something!” I called out.

As soon as I was close enough, my hands reached out, cupping both sides of his face, bringing his lips to mine. I kissed him, once, twice, three times, feeling his arms curl around my lower back. I didn’t feel the cold in his arms. This is it. This is what I wanted.

I backed up, out of breath and a stupid smile on my face. He looked elated, sleepily grinning as he adjusted his glasses.

“Um,” he began, composing himself, “what are you doing for winter break?”

“You could come to [insert my hometown].” It flew out of me. I didn’t even think about it. I was on autopilot.

“Ok,” he said. I felt like I could fly the way he was smiling at me.

“Ok.” I repeated. “Goodnight!” I turned around, running back towards my building as the cold swept me away.

As I shut the door behind me, a quick cheer escaped me. I was jumping up and down, running around my room, dancing even. I felt on top of the world. It was around 1 AM but I needed to talk to someone. I couldn’t just sit still.

In my high, I facetimed my friend from home, showering him with the events of the night.

“How was the kiss?” he asked.

Starter boyfriend.

At the drop of a dime, my mind turned on me.

Don’t get attached. It wasn’t that great. You didn’t even really kiss. It was more like a peck. Three pecks. You kissed him three times to see if you felt a spark. You didn’t. You were just running on adrenaline. You don’t want this. Him coming to YOUR HOUSE? He hasn’t even said your name to your face. Does he even know your name? Does he even like you? You don’t want this. You don’t want this. You don’t want this—

“I don’t think I felt a spark.”

I wanted to cry.

I still do.

I feel like I was meant to go through life only getting these little moments. These fragments of fleeting desires and indescribable pain, so in the end I could put them all together just to feel some semblance of what it is to be in love.

May 13, 2023

I was aware of the minutes between me and the things that I knew. Twenty minutes from my apartment. An hour and a half from my friends and their colleges. Three hours from my home town.

Western Mass curled around me in its greening canopy, summer quickly approaching along with my last days of undergrad.

The trees gilded from side to side, softly dancing in the sunlight that warmed the air. It wasn’t too hot. The temperature reminded me of the coast. The sandy beaches of home. I no longer had the ocean to turn to and ponder with. Her grasp could not reach me here. The trees hugged me in return, but I still felt a sense of otherness.

In my four years of college, I never really ventured out on my own. Aside from runs to the grocery store and maybe the occasional trip to the mall, I always had someone by my side. That’s what college was meant to be, a time when you find your people. As it went on though, those friendships I made began to dwindle. Some graduating early. Others growing apart even when living under the same roof. I became completely aware of my loneliness.

I remember sitting in my car a week prior, crying as I talked on the phone. I had been driving to run errands and had to pull over. I felt like I was in high school. The melodrama of it all. The deliberate exclusion of me from situations I had previously always been a part of. I didn’t remember the last time I cried over feeling left out. I thought I was passed that. I thought people had grown.

It was that day that I decided I would take a day trip somewhere. Just myself. Something I wanted to do.

The gravel crunched under my feet as I stepped out of my car, the sound of rushing water catching my ears. The red painted wood of the Book Mill contrasted well against the bright green leaves of the trees. I heard about this place twice before: once from my friend who grew up in the area, again from my coworker who went to my college years before. It seemed like the obvious spot to go. A cozy, riverside, used-bookstore/cafe? Sign me up.

I wasn’t sure where the door was. I realized later I approached the building from the back instead of the front. It didn’t matter though. Next to me, there were artist shops sheltering in the neighboring small building. One caught my eye that was up a flight of stairs. Later, I thought. I wanted to see what I came for first.

I stumbled onto the back deck. It was empty, the table umbrellas closed tightly and the chairs in disarray, a shame considering the beautiful day. I expected more people. But off the deck, shrouded by trees, a boardwalk sat looking over the river. My chest buzzed. I sauntered over, taking in the rapids below as they glistened in the white rays of the sun. It was the closest I’d come to natural water since being away from home. The campus pond didn’t count. Especially not with all the geese shit in it.

I took out my phone, only taking a couple of photos, wanting to savor the moment more organically. It felt strange experiencing a new area without someone with me. Even when I tried to sit and enjoy the nature by myself, the thought of being alone weighed heavily on me. There was no one around, only the commotion of the artist shops occupied the air, and yet it felt like the trees had eyes. I wanted to flee, get back in my car and drive. Not to my apartment. Not to campus. Somewhere familiar. Maybe back home, I didn’t know.

Instead, I called my mom. It didn’t take long before she answered in a cheery tone, “Hi Bean!”

I instantly felt better.

I talked about where I was and the breathtaking view of the river, all the things I have yet to see and why I came here. It felt exhilarating to tell someone. To have someone listen.

“Who are you with?” she asked.

“Nobody. Just me.”

For the first time, I felt content with that statement. My mom seemed happy about it too. I heard the smile in her voice.

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I eventually found my way inside, entering through the cafe. All the doors were open, the fresh breeze circulating throughout. The floors creaked with a welcoming drone, the smell of coffee thick in the air. The menu was small, full of things I wouldn’t normally order. I probably should’ve looked it up beforehand. The chicken curry sandwich sounded good. The worker told me to sit anywhere.

A few others sat in dining area, filling out the tables in pairs and groups. I was the only one solo dining. It felt like the first week of college, navigating the dining halls alone while avoiding eye contact. My gaze landed on a two-seater by the window. I made my way over as my vision tunneled.

The chicken curry sandwich tasted more like spiced mush. Maybe it would’ve been better had I not already lost my appetite. At least the plate looked nice.

I stared down at the water, the rapids striking against the rocks, rolling off into the distance, fighting on relentlessly. Maybe they were like me in a way. Maybe they could be.

There was a door at the back of the cafe leading to the bookstore. I could only catch glimpses of the shelves from my seat. Eventually, I moseyed my way over. The store was quiet but lively. People walked the aisles, scanning and admiring the well-loved paperbacks. Some sat in chairs scattered about, reading their picks of the day. The counter held stickers and nicknacks, some for the shop, others from local artists. It felt like a snapshot of the small town I was in.

I tried to find the fiction section, my feet roaming into another area of the store. The room was long, like a hallway with a bookcase splitting it down the middle. More books lined the walls on all sides. It was cramped, I brushed shoulders with a couple of people as we passed in the current of pages. A title caught my eye, my fingers wrapping around its spine and hearing the crunch of the old plastic cover. Hardcovers used to have personality; the wobbly sounds the dust jackets would make when you took them off to read.

None of the books spoke to me enough to make me want to buy anything, I was just happy looking through all the titles. I noted the conditions of some: frayed edges, browning pages, split spines. We’ve become so accustomed to white sheets and fresh ink. Spoiled, really. Just because something isn’t new, doesn’t mean it’s less worthy of a read.

How many hands had turned these pages? How many eyes have read these words? It made me smile.

I hardly felt the weight of myself anymore. At least, not in a sense of despair. I found peace, standing among the words of those who are living and not. It’s why I went to college. To learn and live among words.

I wasn’t chasing an experience to share with someone. I wanted to be reminded of my passions. Of myself. To find comfort in me.

I left the Book Mill with nothing, only the sun carrying me home. I pictured myself floating along the river as I drove. Its glistening waters of possibility. All currents leading somewhere, all rapids passing. They always do.

I graduated two weeks later.

Time winked at us in the motion of conversation,
Its fragile face turning shades of pink,
Rogue so gentle I hardly notice.

Does it recognize constellations in your skin?
Dotting your cheeks in ancient adoration
As if all epics lead to you.

How many has Time watched from afar?
Hues of candid fervor so brilliantly constructed
They bruise lips on impact.

I hold bound in my gentleness.
Only hoping to keep the blush of your cheeks.

s. m. burke

Never by word.
Never uttered in the shadows of the mooring ships.
I will not tell you I love you.

Carry me as you would a child in a blanket,
Born anew, craving touch and heat,
And tuck me away in the morrow of your dreams.

But wait patiently.
And never return.

s. m. burke

I never had a set plan for what I wanted to do with my life. But I had big aspirations.

Sitting at a desk from nine to five, working out of my childhood bedroom, was not part of the vision.

I’m nearly 25. I’ve been to physical therapy twice since starting my desk job. Twice, and I’ve only been at this for a little more than two years. Sciatica. Tight neck. Aching shoulder muscles. Strained eyes. Pain radiates throughout my body and returns in some shape or form after a few months of relief.

But I should be grateful, shouldn’t I? With the job market right now, not many people can say that they got a corporate position right out of college. I was lucky enough to have interned for four semesters prior to getting hired full-time. And even then my boss had to fight like hell to keep me on after I graduated.

I know I’m at a good place in my life. But is this the place I want to be?

Humanities have always called my name. But with the rise of technology and AI, those fields are even more under-appreciated, only the few being allowed to succeed. All the jobs I aspired to be have lost their foothold.

Take journalism, for instance. How many 2000s female protagonists worked at some sort of magazine or column? Andie Anderson (How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days), Carrie Bradshaw (Sex and the City), Jenna Rink (13 Going on 30), Andy Sachs (The Devil Wears Prada). With on-paper journalism dying out, if you grew up dreaming of working like any of those women, you pretty much have to throw that out the window. Or look at more modern takes of office jobs—Set It Up (2018), for example—you can at least aspire to be an assistant that finds love. Or give up your success altogether like in Materialists (2025)—don’t even get me started on that movie.

It feeds into the notion that in order to be successful, you have to follow societal standards of success. And that success comes with a price: time.

You need this many years of experience for an entry-level position. You need this degree that will cost you four or more years of your life and thousands in loans. And in the end, NONE OF IT MATTERS.

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A few months ago, I went to get my blood work done and the nurse asked me what I did for work. It was a simple ice breaker, yet my chest pained at the thought of it. I told her I was in tech. It’s not what I thought I’d be doing. I never thought I would have the word “Engineer” in my title. I tried to justify my job, even though there was no need. I word-vomited about how I actually went to school for English and found myself in tech since that’s where the money is.

The justification wasn’t for her; I was trying to convince myself I was doing the right thing with my life. People can view humanities degrees as death sentences. I figured the only paths for me would have been teaching or working in the publishing industry. I was surprised to learn how English found its place in Web Design and Technical Communication. It drew me in like a pulse. Kept me interested. I was afraid I’d get burnt out doing what I loved so this seemed like the perfect compromise.

The nurse shook her head at me.

She thought the same way once. She worked most her life in something that didn’t excite her, spending her days in boredom, wishing for something more. She only recently switched careers, and it was the change she needed. She needed purpose, and doing something that wasn’t what she loved drained her completely.

I didn’t want to listen to her. I thought, Well, that’s easy for her to say. Her passion is in medicine. Her passion is lucrative. I don’t have the luxury.

But I’m beginning to understand what she meant.

When I think about it, if I could do anything, I would be a scholar. I love learning. I love reading works and analyzing their hidden meanings. I love discussions, seeing things through the eyes of others, and sitting in a room of like-mindedness. Looking at it, the obvious career choice would be a professor. But even that field is being attacked right now.

Is this what a quarter-life crisis is? The mid-twenties jitters withering me from the inside out? I’m staring at my own fig tree, it seems. The state of the world is not helping.

Ok. Take a breath.

Just because I have a desk job, doesn’t mean I have to sit still. Remote work allows me the opportunity to work from anywhere. And I mean literally anywhere. I could work abroad for 30 days if I wished—and that in itself is terrifying. The endless possibilities. The choice to do it. (I have commitment issues, can you tell?)

After two years post-grad, I’ve found one simple truth. My job is not my life. It helps fund my life, sure. But it doesn’t define me. It’s a difficult pill to swallow since it’s such a big part of American culture. “What do you do?” A straightforward but loaded question, making us believe that we have to define ourselves in one word or phrase. Most of the time by our job title. But that’s just not true.

You don’t have to do one thing—you don’t have to be one thing. Humans are too complex for that. And that’s something I try to remember. It’s what keeps me going. Keeps me finding more things to define myself with. New hobbies, new places I want to visit, people I wish to meet. It’s a way I can push against the current.

I need to remember that my fruits are still ripe, and I can pick as many as I want. I’m not running out of time. I am the fig tree after all. I can just keep growing.

“Can I… kiss you?”

“Here?”

The idea of my first kiss (almost) taking place at a McDonald’s was my actual worst nightmare. I was eighteen. I’d barely held hands with a person up until this moment. The extent of my romantic experiences consisted of watching romcoms and filling my mind with idolized versions of love, waiting for what felt like the perfect moment.

This was not it.

I felt embarrassed as he leaned back in his seat, a look of defeat square on his face. We were the only ones in the dining area. It was the middle of the week. I should’ve been doing my homework.

He asked me so sporadically. Bowling and food. I had to drive myself there since he just got his license. Ah, JOLs. But I wasn’t going to pass it up. I had been crushing on him for weeks.

Something stirred within me as I watched him dissociatively stare down at his fries. In truth, the awkward moment of my rejection lasted not even a minute. But it felt like hot coals sitting in my stomach.

“Sorry.” I didn’t mean it. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

I navigated the conversation into a classic: “How was your day?”. The rejection hung in the air like a ghost the whole meal. Meal? Who am I kidding? I barely ate.

The McDonald’s was across the street from the bowling alley. I drove us back over to the parking lot since it was raining and he had to get to his car.

I parked and we fell silent.

“…Do you want me to walk you to your car?” I saw the irony in my question. It tended to be something that a boy would say to a girl in the movies. I didn’t know how I felt about the roles being reversed. (Now, I wouldn’t care at all.)

“No,” he says. He might’ve said something more. I don’t remember.

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” I blurted out.

He nodded. “I’ve gathered that.”

No sugar-coating it.

I felt annoyed that I didn’t just let it happen before. To get it over with. But there was no way in hell I was having my first kiss in a McDonald’s of all places. I wouldn’t allow it. My car, however…

I sighed, turning to face him. Let’s rip off the bandaid. “Ok, I’ll shut my eyes and you’ll do it,” I said.

“I’ll do it?” He said this with a smile. Pleasantly shocked.

I nodded, sitting back in my seat. As I shut my eyes, I focused on the rain pattering against the windshield, thinking about how I originally planned for this night to go. We’d drive down to my favorite beach, walk out on the boat dock, and he’d kiss me in the orange glow of the street lights.

But he took too long, so I ended up leaning in.

I was surprised at how mundane it felt. There were no wild sparks. No montage of all our little moments piled into one grand display. The first time I kissed a boy, it was quick. I was in and out, leaning back in my chair and looking straight ahead. A sort of huh expression crossed my face.

He chuckled. I felt relieved. He kissed me again, this time better than the first. Though I wasn’t exactly sure what I was doing.

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My expectations had always held me back from kissing someone. I thought you should have a deep connection. Really know the person. It would be more meaningful that way. A kiss was the climax of having a crush. It’s what all of it was leading to. The gateway to a relationship. In the moment, I was ecstatic. I finally felt like a normal teen in my last year of high school.

After he went back to his car, I sat there in silence, listening to the rain again. Feeling… God, what was I feeling? Numb? Excited? Baffled? I didn’t get to contemplate the moment for long. He left his drink in the car. I ran to give it to him. He smiled at me as I approached. With the rain, I figured I probably shouldn’t linger.

“Wait!” he said.

I turned around and he motioned me closer. We kissed again. It felt like reassurance. Like there wasn’t a need for me to think about it too hard. I felt myself blush as I said goodbye, running back to my car.

He later told me he wasn’t ready for a relationship :)

What had I been waiting for? For years, my head had been filled with the facade of “the perfect moment”. The sweeping me off my feet, heart fluttering, stomach flipping moment when I finally get everything I ever pictured. I wasn’t even sure if people looked at me romantically.

I remember the To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before movie coming out the summer before my senior year. I felt like I finally found a romantic protagonist that I could actually relate to. Lara Jean filled her head with romantic fantasies, inspired by stories she was reading—that was until she was actually living one. I’ll never forget the scene between her and Peter in the diner after the party. Their conversation pierced me in the chest like a white-hot dagger.

LARA JEAN: “So love and dating? I love to read about it, and it’s fun to write about and to think about in my head, but… when it’s real…”

PETER: “What, it’s scary?”

LARA JEAN: “Yeah.”

It’s like she finally said the quiet part out loud.

The fear was there. I think that’s what was stirring in me before returning his drink. A part of me felt accomplished, that I finally got to experience what it was to kiss someone. But another felt disappointed. I didn’t feel how I normally felt watching romcoms. My stomach filled with butterflies, blush heating my cheeks, giggles pouring out of me as I kicked my feet. I felt sweaty and anxious. Unsure of my next move and not knowing what was going on in his head. I could read people so easily on the screen and page.

It was a rude awakening, my first kiss. And it only built another fear in me. What if I never get to experience the love I’ve always dreamed about? What if it’s not real? The thoughts swirled and swirled.

But I took a breath. (And lived a little.)

Sure, I may not have had my first kiss when I was in seventh grade playing spin the bottle. And I may not have had built up tension in a fake relationship with someone I used to have a crush on. But I think having my first kiss when I did made me realize that love and relationships aren’t actually as terrifying as I thought they once were.

Yes, intimacy still freaks me out. (I’m working on it.) But even through college, I was able to explore myself more freely because of that small experience I had in high school.

And that’s not to say that you can’t have that first experience in college! Or later!

There’s no right time or perfect moment to have your first romantic experiences. They happen when they happen. And no matter when they do, they can open you up to a whole other world of possibilities. You can find love in all sorts of places. Romance and believing in it shouldn’t stop once two lips meet. It should be a doorway.

I’ve always put so much pressure on myself when it comes to writing. A journal entry, a new poem, the shapeless yet formative beast that is my WIP. Even now, typing this article, I feel this overwhelming nausea of untapped potential. As if everything I put to paper has to have some sort of celebrated substance to feel even the least bit worthy.

Not just with writing. I’ve always been like this. God, I used to cry over getting anything less than a B when I was in high school. As if my grades held my value as a person.

In every environment, I wanted to be great or nothing. And as a writer, that’s the worst thing you can be.

Writing in pen is a way I challenge myself. The permanent nature gives me a high like no other. Especially knowing that the only way I can “fix” it is to slather my words with WhiteOut (and then twitch at how the pigment doesn’t match the page). The covering of my mistakes makes me feel so hollow, like I’m patching up my words in a Frankenstein of falsehood, trying to make them look their best while still seeing the ugliness of it all. WhiteOut is the masked savior of the blaring thorn in my side: I am unable to write on a page without messing up.

When did I become so obsessed with curating the perfect version of myself? As if every word on the page would see the light of day, have eyes on it, and be judged by the masses. Even now, I struggle to find my voice in the jigsaw jargon of it all. I’m never satisfied with my phrasing; one word is always off. It’s like doing a picture-less puzzle where multiple pieces have the same shape, and yet the one I need is nowhere to be found. I’m probably sitting on it.

So how exactly am I combating my perfectionistic tendencies? Well, for starters, throw out the WhiteOut. Then, embrace the madness.

When physically writing down things, I’m leaning more towards the scribbling-out method. Swirls and swirls of black and blue ink—because somehow those colors seem the most official. I can see on the page where my mind makes a hiccup, misspells a word, or changes directions entirely. It bugged the hell out of me in the beginning. But I held tight to my pen and let my mind go wild.

I want to make my words as authentic as possible, so I can look back on them and recount my life at this age. I’m beginning to fall in love with my scribbles, editing my words in real time and seeing my mind work before my very eyes.

This only really applies to my journal. With pieces I type out, I mainly try not to fall into the cycle of reading my work over and over again, nitpicking each sentence down to the place of a comma. It’s why my current WIP—a high-fantasy novel—seems never-ending. I’m approaching ten years of structuring and building out my world, inevitably finding something that makes me want to stop and write all over again.

It’s an unhealthy cycle of critique. And the fatigue sets in quickly. If I’m being honest, I can’t remember the last time I wrote something creatively. My Scrivener window sits open on my laptop, but I can’t bring myself to do anything with it.

Take a breath. Baby steps.

Although I’m becoming more comfortable with recounting my thoughts unfiltered in my journal, my brain hasn’t quite yet grasped that the audience I’m writing for is myself. It shouldn’t matter whether it’s in my journal or for my novel. I just need to write. Maybe even turn off Grammarly.

Hopefully my worst critic shuts up for a while so I can get to it.

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Thanks so much for reading! I’m not really sure if you’d consider this an actual article, it’s kind of just me rambling, but if you took something away from it, I’m glad :)

I’m still getting used to writing on Substack. I’m trying not to take it too seriously and just have some fun expressing my thoughts <3

where to move to now that i’m out of college.
what to eat to heal my gut.
what shampoo to use so my hair doesn’t fall out.
what career i should waste a degree on.

what music my ears should bleed to.
what clothes i should spend money on.
who i should rage about in the night
and what world i should live in.

what sun my wings will burn from.
what dreams i should give up on.
who i should pour my time into
and where i should plant my roots,
where my ashes will be scattered.

i wish someone would tell me,
as i kneel on the cold floor of the confessional.

s. m. burke

Have I finally outgrown my hometown? It’s a question I don’t like to think about too often. Because with it comes change and possibility. “Your life starts at the other side of your comfort zone.” Or something like that. There’s comfort in being close to my family, to know that if something should happen I’m not a thousand miles away. But since coming back from my trip to California, I can’t help but feel trapped. Caged. The rooms I’ve grown up in feel claustrophobic.

To give some context, I was in California for a work trip. It was my first time on the West Coast, and I loved every second of it. I ate a lot of great seafood, dipped my fingertips into the cool waters of the Pacific, caressed and admired the towering Redwoods of Henry Cowell State Park, and caught a glimpse of life in Silicon Valley.

But standing at the base of the tallest Redwood in the park was beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. The only way I can describe it is out-of-body. Maybe it was an oxygen high. I was breathing the freshest air my lungs have had the privilege to breathe. It was the lightest and calmest I’ve ever felt, as if all the burdens and questions that had been weighing on me were lifted. The sort of high I’ll chase forever. The kind that lingers like warm sunlight trickling in through the trees in the early hours of the morning.

The Giant, it’s called. A tree as tall as a twenty-seven-story building and older than anything I’ve ever known. I’ve walked by skyscrapers in the city before, but this made me feel so truly small. Oh how minuscule and minute some of my problems are! How can they compare to anything as I look leagues above me? It’s as if Nature winked at Time as it was passing by.

I stare out at the Atlantic as I write this, sitting at my favorite beach in gloomy April showers, feeling the whiplash of New England’s weather.

I’ve begun to wonder if I can picture myself out there. If I’d be happier. I long for a place I barely scratched the surface of. For the endless opportunity and growth I could experience. Chance encounters, creative outlets, fresh faces and lives I have yet to touch, my life weaving telescopic paths before me.

I long for the possibility of me.