This is my story,
wayward words and violet verse,
pages of preemptive pain that bleeds through to the binding,
and I’m blinded by it, unable to see what’s possible for me.
I’ve never been one for trusting,
never really thought I was deserving of a task like that,
but maybe I’m more than I once thought I could be.
There’s a chandelier up in the place where I lost my scarf last night,
and the floor was sticky, slick when the bass dropped,
I thought about the year that lay before me,
and for the first time, in a long time,
I felt excited about being alive.