In my life, July has almost universally been a month of rude awakenings—when whatever romantic viewpoint I’d adopted up until then was somehow burned to the ground.
Sometimes, it was the slow realization that—no matter how hard I tried—a love I’d invested so much time in just wasn’t worth it. That it didn’t matter if he was four million miles away or four inches—whatever was left was a shell of what was.
Sometimes, it was a confusing mess of not really-maybe-I don’t know. Or I just can’t trust you. Or you’re right for not trusting me.
Sometimes, it was realizing that the thing I most wanted would break me—split me open like so many atomic bombs. It was realizing that I had the right, and the obligation, to choose something else…even if it made my entire life explode.
Sometimes, it was the start of trying—for the first time—and giving in to the hope that it actually mattered. Sometimes, it was laughing at my pussy friends who refused to dance in the rain on America’s birthday and coming home to the only fireworks he could give me.
July has been a turning point, always, in my ability to choose. For better or for worse. It’s always been bright and messy. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.