I wish i could step from one version of myself to the next, Just reach out and bridge the space between who i am and who i want to be. But it’s never that clear cut, as much as I crave the simplicity. For there are no distinct versions of the self, they bleed chaotically into each other. The past only slowly gets diluted by who I am and what i’m trying to be, going to be, wanting to be. But it’ll never be pure, never complete. I can’t filter out the parts of myself that make me recoil. That lingering feeling of disgust and panic when hands brush the small of my back As if I’m still that little girl who can’t forget what happened. The urge to say things I no longer need to, cockled words plastered to the bottom of my brain. Fears that no longer match my reality. I am cursed to be bound to the worst parts of myself: past, present and future. At least that applies to the best ones too. I know I’m bubbling with all the good parts of the woman I want to - am going to be