butterflies are passive aggressive and put their problems on the shelf

He spoke.

And butterflies flew from his mouth to the earth, to my stomach.

We huddled under a blanket, under the moon, in 30 degree weather and he spoke so effortlessly.  The words were so easy; I wasn't the first to hear them that day.

I didn't say much.  And it wasn't because I was shocked by his verse, but rather his voice was so comfortable and familiar that I had nothing to contradict.  Because as I gazed at him, his steady jaw, I only felt fondness towards him.  My kin.

He spoke and I listened and something was fluttering in the air between us and it was the strongest love I'd ever felt.  Because I was elated by his trust and I knew it didn't change anything.  Nothing at all.

He spoke and I felt like crying.  But not the way my mother would have cried.  No, I wanted to cry because I thought I should have known all of these years.  I wanted to cry because he knew all of these years.  I wanted to cry because, in that moment, I respected him so damn much.  

I mean, the thickening of my throat was for the unfathomable courage that I'd never possess.  All of the confessions that I'd never be able say.  All of the vitality that I'd never be able to stress.

In that moment, I wanted to be him.  I wanted to lay everything out for the stars and the moon. I wanted to reciprocate.

In that moment, there were so many things that I could have given.

I could have told him that I was still hurting so entirely from my loss that summer.

I could have told him that I did terrible things to my body.

I could have told him that I always went to bed with tired eyes.

There was so much I could have given.

But the night was his.

And it was so serene.

- S.H.

in with the outro and out with the old

This isn't the first time I've done this.

I've been to Paris.

But I'm coming back because I like what it does to me.

Lately, I've been sitting in lecture halls with hundreds of people and it's really hard to be recognized there.  Except, I think, I don't want to be recognized.  Not for that.  Not for doing what thousands, millions of people are already doing.

Here's the truth:  Nobody cares that you're going to college.  But they ask because it's polite and it's what they're supposed to do. And when they ask you what your major is, they ask with apathy.  And when you tell them you're an English major with an emphasis in Creative Writing they wish they didn't ask in the first place.  Nobody cares that you're going to college, especially when it's for overtly impractical reasons.

Except, it's not like that in Paris.  I mean, they still don't care that you're sitting in lecture halls, but they're astounded that you've made it this far in such a remorseless world.  They're astounded that you aren't using a carefully marked map as you venture on a road that probably leads off the edge of some unknown universe into a black abyss as mysterious as your tortured-artist soul.  They're astounded by your blatantly stupid courage.  And you have they're utmost respect.

So I'm back in Paris, among the masses, and it's raining here and it's enough.  It's enough to feel my heart working and my mind turning, and my hands are definitely shaking.  Because Paris is no longer a place, it's a feeling and I'm beginning to feel fine.  But I'm also feeling overwhelmed as it's been a while and I'm hoping I'll be able to do this again.  Although, this time will be entirely changed.

I'm not going to be afraid just for the sake of someone knowing my identity outside of Paris.  I will not tell euphemisms.  I will not obscure the things I say.  My words will be assuredly mine.  Because you don't get recognized for being somebody else.  My name is not Sophie Hatter, but she is who I am.  It's this person I've created beyond the name, beyond the character I've stolen from a book, and I've finally taken over.  So I'm going to live up to it and get real with you guys.  I'll share my innermost self whether you want me or not and I'll probably rub you the wrong way or offend you.  But I don't give a fuck because this is Paris.

- S.H.