Where is my makeup bag? The one I had since I was 15 years old, carrying extra scrunchies and tape. I try to remember when I saw it last, possibly April or perhaps May. It must be here somewhere. Why would I throw it away? I only have one bag that fits everything perfectly in the front pocket of my bookbag. It smells like pomegranates despite my perfume being vanilla scented. Did I accidentally throw it away during spring cleaning? No, I would remember doing that. Unless I was too tired, accidentally doing it anyways. I am not sure anymore. It’s probably under my bed.  

There are many things I would rather not think about. I would like to prevent myself from an anxiety attack. It is either too painful or too exhausting, but I carry it anyways. It is not like I have a choice.  

I remember far too much. Doesn’t everyone know the exact shade of blue of the sweater they wore three years ago? Or what was the average temperature of last week? Nevertheless, it is worse when I don’t remember. What shoes was I wearing; were they polished? I would rather avoid a crisis of identity on a Wednesday afternoon.  

I attempt to fill my head with pretty thoughts or whatever the tv said. So, I sing to myself whatever Lou Reed tune I can conjure up. If that is not enough, I will distract myself by hyper-fixating on something that will not make me sick. Nothing that will make shiver with regret or confusion. I haven’t read anything by Joan Didion since she died; I do enjoy some female rage. Anything but “Democracy.”  

I was once a poet myself, but that is too much of a depressing thought. It will return to me another day after I am done with school. I have chosen my stability, so I must lie with it.   

I have lost too much, so I tremble at the thought of throwing anything out. So, I must keep that I have left.  

Harry Styles is not a real person. I have confirmed it at the Garden. Far too beautiful to be a mortal. He appeared in front of me, where he could see the top of my head, no longer a poster from the grocery store. Like the old saying goes written on the subway: Money is fake, but Harry Styles is forever. 

The Duolingo bird keeps sending me notifications to study Italian. I can still conjugate in my head. Ma sono troppo stanca. I enjoy that each day I have the potential to get smarter.  

Ms. Swift, the closest I have ever gotten to having a relaxing thought is when I am with someone else. Suddenly, I am not so alone. Though I don’t have a cat that loves me. Nor can I say that karma is my boyfriend – I haven’t loved a man in three years. Regardless, I believe there are some people that love me. However, if I start counting, I am going to start crying.