Sometimes fragments of the person I used to be come in wisps and gentle waves but then they are gone and this is who I am and it is the cage I have wielded around myself and I thought I could major in English and write but I can’t anymore because the more you write the more you think and the more you think the easier it is for the sadness to creep into your bed when you are alone at night and not even the darkness of your bedroom can mask the poignant looks of disappointment, the crippling loneliness, the whispers that repeat this is who you are this is who I am.