We are our worst. We are the curse beneath our breath. We are the wretched things: the compromises made when fear is left. There’s no box to check. There’s no check to send – no phrase to say with our hands lifted.
Some days I wish there was.
I lost my grip. I felt it slip like it was yesterday. Some days we crawl the line. Some days we float and radiate. “It will all come back if you want it to.” “ If you can hold your breath, if you can see it through…”
Some days I’m not convinced.
There’s so much left – just cup your hope and keep it lit.
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