i am fragile and frantic and wanting some covering for my unprotected head.

i don't think new york needs to be so lonely.

but these days, my bones grind against themselves

and leave me like dust.

i need the pacific, and its oil to my joints,

and its peace to my self.

I'm a lefty

it's a little bit like being judged for my penmanship when i'm only allowed to use my right hand. everything feels awkward and uneasy in front of a crowd of faces i adore, and want to impress.

i don't like putting out so many words and winding up so naked. i don't like pouring so much self into molds and letting be dissected so sterilely.

what's worse, i am needy and afraid.

I still imagine he believes in me though his voice is gone.
Memories of confidence and the west coast keep driving me to prove why I am still good.
What will happen when I am done?
Will the accolades sound like his approval?
What will happen when I present 50 pages of reasons and 50 pages of distractions and he is still gone?
When he wanted nothing to do with it from the beginning-
No more or less impressed than ever before.

There are so many books filled with so many words!

Flowing and covering me and spilling again and again.

The words are alive, too! The best part: my words are becoming their words.

How exciting, this new world.

I've been living inside the walls of my head,
They are wallpapered with flowers: green, ivory, and brown.
My days are decorated with lines from a book.
I'm lost inside murals of poetry and romance.

I like this room. I am preparing cribs for children and learning stories to tell them. I have kisses budding and so much love.

Its quiet and alone, but I have so much love for the future.