"I’ve always known that life is a story - it’s the changing I fear. And i hate that i fall in love with those who leave. I am the reverse traveller. I am a home base sending postcards when my lovers need no reminders of home; I never learned to love somebody who wouldn’t leave. And in that, I bereave myself from loving entirely, because you cannot love what is away until it has not been; this is my flaw, and now my nadir.
There is danger in knowing who you are, because knowledge must be owned or refuted, and I feel it’s far too soon to say who I am! Why live in labels, but for comfort? I am unsure, and this is another chapter that I would not want to share, because who could care?
I’m climbing from the canyon, but I’m slipping; I need to know that there’s a rope, and that’s why faith and love come hard. I need a hand but will not reach to take it and I know it and I don’t know why.
Winter seeps in my windows. My feet get cold and so I write a poem about cold feet, to be clever and to hide and pretend what isn’t is. But there is no making in pretending. I am.”