Untitled Refection No.6

I am haunted by the prospect of “growing out of” that which I am meant to be held by.

My own shaking hands coddle my resistance to joy.

I am pulling drag after relentless drag of dissatisfaction - one shallow breath in, one countless breath out.

Where did all of that air come from? How long did I hold it in?

Suddenly I am weightless.


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