I ask you:
Who, when faced by me, runs? Because I wonder if these writings are even palatable. Perhaps too faithful/faithless, and both are terrifying. Quick thoughts I scribble down in sentimental ink, and never think about it.
Here is where I write to breathe. This space. To stop is to suffocate, to exact my own execution. To hang, full limp, like unavailing sex. To hang.
But to keep words in treasure chests, between underwear in drawers. To invite the sordid verb beside the fire for marshmallows. To sing—in words that are chords and symphonies of letters. To write, plain simple. To write.
Is, for me, to live.
Please do not run: I have forgotten how to apologize for breathing.