I Exist

“I love you. I’m glad I exist” - Wendy Cope

I exist in the Taylor Swift song I dance to in the morning, 

post-shower, pre-coffee, spritzing perfume all around me.

I exist with a dimple on my left cheek, the one my grandmother

wanted me to even out by sleeping on a button. 

I exist in the postage stamp from Boston, MA, in the bookmarks

from Caroline and a warm note for my rainy Sunday. 

I exist on the plane, in the window seat, gazing out at the world

that once haunted me. 

I exist for reading, for painting, for late-night Cosmopolitans, for 

yoga, for summer, for Gossip Girl seasons I get lost in.

I exist as a daughter, as a lover, as a friend, and as an enemy depending 

on whose recollecting the life I’ve lived. 

I exist having nightmares most nights of the week, and writing everything down 

when I wake from my most exhausting sleep.

I exist on the gray couch across from my therapist, I bet of all my poems

she’ll be most pleased I wrote this. 

I exist with a Wendy Cope poem on the top of my mind, which reminds me 

of my boyfriend, my best friends, and what happens when you survive. 

I exist in the poems you’ve read here today, in moments unnoticed, in the margins of every page. 

I exist, it’s all here, and sometimes it’s quite terrifying. I don’t always 

enjoy it, but really, I’m trying.

I exist, and I’m glad, and I love so much about my life. I’m sensitive, often

scared, but that allows me to write.