So why is a pretty line like you single?



I hope to sit with you one day,

in a content sort of way.

Sometimes thing are okay and sometimes they’re not,

But I’d love to have you as a constant, even though you can’t be constant,

Because one day, after you’ve become my constant, my comfort, you’ll die, or I will,

And the other will be left in a constant state of grief and loss, which will in some way ease but never go.


This is the first thing that comes to mind:

that time when an “important” someone said I wasn’t pretty in not so many words.

This is the second thing that comes to mind:

the things I write are, so often, a sapping showcase of my vulnerability.

This the the third thing that comes to mind:

my poor little dead bird in the soil.

This is the forth:

I cried so much over that dead bird, harder than I’ve cried in years, so hard that I hurt my throat, that my mother said she hasn’t heard me cry that hard since the first time my heart was broken when I was 18 and still a girl.