06.05.01

this bird of the moon hasn't died.

she's still breathing. she still has her wings.

but.

memories, of breaking, of being broken, of the treacherous glint of inky waters on a moonless night, these memories haunt me.

i find myself splaying open my history with a determined pen, unwilling to balk at the black expanses of 'i don't remember.'

words are spilling over all the surfaces of my life. blue ink is dripping off the corners of the windowsills, overflowing from the trash bin--words, my words--slipping and sliding everywhere. this is not about writing, not about art, but about breathing air and surviving.

i want to go further, underneath the not-remembering. i am on an excavation mission.

this is my mind, after all. my body. my story to tell.

small wonder, that with pages being written at a furious pace, maelstroms of words raging, i sit down to update and think, in a panic, "but i have nothing to say."

***

xoxo,

moonbird

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