it was mine to keep, so i won’t share it with you.

"what's in a name? that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." ~W.S

history is a complicated being; she's the definition of cruelty to those who are losers, but a sense of victory to her writers. and perhaps i have a bais, truly, my history was not ideal; nonetheless, it is what created me. yet, i am not a woman of her past, not a scultpture from it's shaving and breaking; no, i'm my own creation with mosiac eyes- the only way to view my past, that you'll ever find.

if the world asked me who i was currently, i'd say: i'm an old soul with only half her brain cells, reading an AP textbook and classic novel at the same time, with a shot of identity crisis mixed in with acute social anxiety, that’s scribbling short stories on her forearm, all while vomiting prose poetry about an unobtainable lover.

if a stranger asked me who i was currently, i'd say: enough for me to love, still figuring out the essence of my being. sorry, it's just, i've lived a quarter of my life, yet still have none of it figured out. truly? i want to be something worth remembering.

if my friend asked me who i was currently, i'd say: beach baby with sunrise anklets and an athlete who loves playing her game. (better short and sweet than exposing my true being, for, no one gains popularity easily.)

if my family asked me who i was currently, i'd say: i don't really know, who am i?

if my soulmate asked me who i was currently, i'd say: darling, i'm nothing and everything, it's bloody confusing.

as for you, well, i kept my name the secret treasure it was meant to be; hinted at without revealing my insane history; and told you my replies to everybody. and here i am unsure, if i'm worth more than the time fate gave me. i'm sure there's something that makes me me, and i think i've just touched the surface. perhaps my identity is the concept of a mystery.