I Keep Wanting To Crawl Back Into

I Had Imagined A Kind, Ugly, Intuitive Man Looking Up And Say, 'ah!' In An Encouraging Way, As If He Could See Something I Couldn't, And Then I Would Find Words To Tell Him How I Was So Scared, As If I Were Being Stuffed Farther And Farther Into A Black, Airless Sack With No Way Out.

Secretly, In Studies And Attics And Schoolrooms All Over America, People Must Be Writing.

It Is So Much Safer Not To Feel, Not To Let The World Touch Me.

I Have The Choice Of Being Constantly Active And Happy Or Introspectively Passive And Sad. Or I Can Go Mad By Ricocheting In Between.

I Couldn’t See The Point Of Getting Up. I Had Nothing To Look Forward To.