On Sunday afternoons, you send me messages. I did cartwheels on the grass yesterday. I gravitate towards what is good, and wonder why what ever else gets processed is on me stuck. I pray pry it off. I take showers. I scrub. I am open to being deranged. I’m not deranged. I just take it anyway. I am a sacrifical lamb.
I’m not doing this purposefully.
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bursting,
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voices in my head,
writing
This entry was posted on May 9, 2010 at 6:23 PM and is filed under blossom, bursting, love, mine, voices in my head, writing. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.
