An offering: the grey hair I found last night, two inches from my parting, coarser than the rest. I am young in the head, old in the body. There is a point at which the way one turns into who they are becomes irrelevant. Only who they are; what they are now concerns. What am I now? What does an old body and a young mind mean? That I have not learned from my wrought imaginary peril; that my body has taken the brunt for me, all aches and grey hairs while I lay in naivety? The only boy I have ever kissed like I meant it, I didn’t. I couldn’t close my eyes. I couldn’t close my eyes. An offering: the tea I drink now. Coffee is far too bitter; I don’t think I will ever have a taste for it. My taste has changed; is changing. But some things stay the same. I’ve never liked most cheese and I love peking duck but I don’t eat it anymore. I don’t eat any meat anymore. It’s mostly ethical; gassing baby animals to death and all. But I have a predisposition to making food rules and taking away things I enjoy. A predictable mind that way; all self destruction. Can one be all self destruction? It’s a sort of sadism I no longer pretend to understand. Maybe I am all contradictions. Delicate about purity and brash about self-harm. Obsessive and detached. Selectively mute and desperate to be heard. Cruel to myself, kind to animals; kind to most things. A vegetarian with a mild lust for violence. I wrote in a journal once that perfect was a stronger word than hate; but I was sick then. Jesus, I was sick then. Food was intake and all numbers. Days were short and lonely and romanticized. I suppose they still are. I didn’t write much then. I read a lot and never spoke. Most of a day’s words were read on a webpage, listening to Possibility over and over. Most of my conversation now is stunted. A feeble imitation of casual. Blacking out like a war veteran who only heard the bombs; never saw the destruction. My dad and I go to the same diner every Friday; right after a futile therapy session. We walk in around 3:45 and see the same two waitresses. I can talk then. All the words saved up for a short hour where I can finally let them spill over. And spill they do. I’m rather rotten to be around when I’m like that. Sentences left half complete; I’m already two ahead. It’s hard to follow, hard to be around. Guess that’s me. So, an offering: a girl that’s hard to love and easy to like. Who won’t show up most days but by God, she wants to.