Glue
The glue keeping my sanity together, and precariously at that, is my writing. Dancing words, words that draw sighs from lovers- words that are derisive, cruel, mocking or taunting. Words that calm and act as a snug haven of belonging-- whether real or imagined.
If I were to quantify every desperate, hopeful and mad desire which sits on my chest, they could be traced down a dry path belonging to no one except maybe the sea and its salty fingertips. Or to a collection of broken seashells that looks out of place. Or to the rough spotty-damp stout trunks of lopsided trees. Or to that purple weed that keeps springing up despite you thinking that you finally had it at the roots the last time. How mistaken we both were.
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