Connecticut is the home of lollipops, the Colt .45 revolver, polaroid cameras,
typewriters, the American dictionary, and anesthesia.
Some of my favorite things.
Connecticut was also home, once, to me. 
And before I could turn one, my kin and I wandered through the boroughs,
and the rest of the states until I landed by myself in the wild, wild west.
As an outsider, I only survived by constructing and deconstructing
art, myths, and poems.
Sometimes, I feel like Connecticut: an obscure creator.
But I don't think I'm completely selfless nor do I believe I ever will be.
I prefer my name on a label, tagging every original idea of mine,
like a trademark. 
At first, I’d think: There is beauty in mystery, in not exposing too much but rather exposing one article at a time; the seduction behind such a slow reveal.   
But then, I thought: What if modesty culture is a tool for oppression? What if we just hide behind insecurities, like imposters?
Fast forward, twenty-something years later… , I think of myself as a storyteller, sharing and expressing my truth in artwork, mythology, and poetry. 
It “only” took a bad break-up, life-altering injury, and cross-country move to learn that love is the only way– that, irrespective of where I come from, where I am, or where I will be, I simply want to be seen.
Now, I firmly believe in the sentiment that is: to understand me is to love me.
Even when my ego is here. Especially so— maybe then I will understand why "Made in NY" sticks more than "Connecticut Made." 
I bet there's a lot more where that came from, even if I can’t explain it, or make it make sense.
Anyway, I've decided to publish my writing online.