My instincts are for me first, then they guide my actions so they can be chosen with consciousness.
My instincts are for me first, then they guide my actions so they can be chosen with consciousness.
October begins my descent into darkness, internal and eternal.
Writing is an exorcism.
Both live in me. One leaps toward passion, the other toward peace.
I carry my father still. His absence weighs— a ghost in my chest, sorrow and relief entwined, a delicate dance.