Sometimes it’s as if I’m forcing my heart open, holding it open with every ounce of will, dripping will. Dripping off of me. Bits of my heart drop down and dribble in gooey black-red strands, closing, in each of its dribbles, a little more of what I hold so dearly, tenuously open. its hurting & I can’t be kind anymore sometimes, without this horrible wrench rattling through all the closed bits, cuz they have precious bits of me on them; they also carry my fears, my fear..
Why do I walk again and again in these old ramshackle neighborhoods, wondering, wondering?