God, I am freaking out. Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe I just look guilty of something and he’s picking up on that.

You told me I wrote that poem because I was afraid of dealing with myself. And I used my mom as an excuse, accusing her of not appreciating or accepting me, when I should have been saying those words into a mirror.

I can't. You can't rewrite the past.

After all, how often do we get a second chance?

I miss video games where the jump-kick was the trickiest combo to master.

But you can't get away from yourself. You can't decide not to see yourself anymore. You can't decide to turn off the noise in your head.

Normally when a person has a stellar image another person's waiting in the wings to tear them apart. They're waiting for that one fatal flaw to expose itself.