i am so remarkably tired of being me. of holding this name and wearing this skin. the sort of tired that usually only results from a 12 hour shift scraping chicken flesh from the bone, wiping tables, and running around after assholes. i’m tired of being the unreliable friend, the unsociable one, the person who disappears. i’m sick of being the girl who never answers the phone, the one who’s tricky to get a hold of, the friend who’s never really there - who loses contact. because i never really lose contact. i can never truly disappear. because i remember every missed phone call and i’m haunted by every party i can’t bring myself to make and every text i can’t muster the courage to reply to. the old friends i’ve gradually distanced myself from remain around me, a chorus line of ghosts. i’m just so terribly tired of being the person with all the baggage and nothing in her hands. my suitcases are numerous, but empty. i have nothing, but i’ve rejected much.