Circles

When I listen to Maggie Rogers’ “Falling Water,” I always hear I never loved you fully in the way I could so deeply, completely.

When I think of the word hag, I think of the greying light beyond the horizon before a storm. I think of possibility hanging heavy in the air.

The Art of Letting Go

When I recommend a song to someone else, I am sharing multiple variations of myself.

Even from the beginning the stage never felt like home. Every second spent gazing into the faces of hundreds I wasted fazed, flaming.

Eyes open; sunlight pressing its tired hopeful nose against the horizon.

$VII: Aubade | Uncomposed: "Refractions of Light"$

I have wanted to leave home since I was thirteen years old, and the desire sings in my ribs even more strongly now.

Our lives are composed of cycles within cycles.

Dawn is portentous as any moment.

At fourteen, I watched the sun rise not as the beginning of a new day, but as a continuation of the night before, an endless monotony.

To Be Still

Somewhere I was still eleven, still spinning in a world of rabbit hearts and howling wolves, where music ran right next to me in the grass.