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 to the boroughs,
and then the rest of the U.S. until I landed alone 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'll ever be.
I still want my name on a label, slapped on every original idea of mine,
like a trademark. 
At first, I thought: there is beauty in mystery, in not exposing too much but rather unraveling one article at a time; the seduction behind such a slow reveal.   
But then, I thought: What if modesty culture is a tool of oppression? What if I am just hiding behind insecurities? What if I am an imposter? 
Fast forward twenty something years later, where now, I think that I am something like a divine feminine, and I wish to share my truth in the form of storytelling. 
It only took me a heart break or two, a life-altering injury, a cross-country move, and a major career commitment to learn that love is the only way– that, irrespective of where I come from, where I am, or where I go, I simply want to be seen.
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. 
Anyways, I've decided to share my writing, even if none of it makes any sense.