I went looking for old resumes and found love poems.

Days’ worth, piled and sorted and dated and full, ripe to bursting, with sensations. It was enough to take my breath away. The sheer volume of them. And I looked at the titles and remembered them. Remembered every love, every heartbeat, every lustful ache. I remembered the different kinds of love, the brotherly, the caring, the romantic, the disdainful, the tired, the devoted, the demented, the relenting and unrelenting, the requited and the unrequited. I found stories of adventure, of bravery and fear, of strength and failure. I have words for almost every day that stink of passion, heave with exhaustion, shudder with mirth and swagger with beauty.
So I’m sorry, father, that I have rarely made wise financial decisions. I’m sorry I didn’t keep my call centre job all summer and save and pay off debts. I’m sorry I forgot to pay my taxes for four years, that I’ve yet to crawl above the poverty line, that I keep needing your help every fall, when my thoughts turn to nesting and I need that boost to make it to first and last. I’m sorry all my careful work stops dead at the sight of a good adventure. I don’t want to be someone who needs your support. I can promise I won’t be an impulse buyer, an unsatisfied, restless consumer. Those are not my ills and never will be. I’ll try to do better with money things soon, but god damn it. You could never claim that I do not know how to live!