If I could define my life, I’d wonder the words

that might help identify what is worthy of an

explanation, like memory, or a nursery rhyme.

That digging deeper part always hangs me up.

Such is the fear of being totally honest with 

ourselves in light of showing vulnerability.

In my own quiet I want it to be only sacred.

My own story, my own pain, my own shadows.

And yet even before I tell the story, it is already

exposed to the world in my affect I do share. 

It’s what makes serendipity seem like a stupid

fantasy brought together to give hope where

there is none meant to any longer be found.

Only if I might better understand the purpose

of this incessant desire to hang on to all the

confusion and remorse of my life up to today.

I’ll try to understand how quickly I do dive

into such is the swirling channel of a riptide.