Notreallypoetryjustmakingwattpadmynewnotesapp Stories

Few occasions I let myself write--without the world peering from behind my shoulder. I let this simple-minded, disarray of cosmic dust live outside of its shelf. And yes, the pages have weathered, the spine eaten with mites and time, who was never kind as it aged me in seasons of grief and bliss. A decade in waiting and a week well into adulthood mourning. These are my highs--tepid and mediocre. But they exist. They just do. I've allowed them to.