I want to start writing again but, every time I do it feels like I'm trying too hard to be poetic, or to imitate some poem that I liked, looking too hard for metaphors in places where they do not belong because this is reality, this is who I am and where I am and it's not always good but it's real, it's here and I'm breathing, even if the air is sometimes infected with pessimism and cigarette smoke, even if sometimes it smells like car exhaust and rotting trash cans instead of my mother's black raspberry candles. I don't know who to count as my first kiss, I can't even remember all of my kisses, I KNOW I COULD BE SO MUCH WORSE BUT I JUST WANT TO FEEL PURE AGAIN. I CANNOT CONFESS EVERYTHING TO MY MOTHER, I CANNOT LAUGH ABOUT MY MISTAKES. I FEEL LIKE I'M PULLING A THREAD OUT OF MY GRANDFATHER'S HAND-ME-DOWN SWEATER BUT IT JUST KEEPS GETTING LONGER AND LONGER, I JUST WANT TO SLEEP BUT, IF I LET GO NOW, I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO FIND THE END AGAIN, AND I CANNOT KEEP DESTROYING THE ONLY PIECES I HAVE LEFT OF HIM.
