People ask if I regret sending them. No. I regret the reasons they had to be written. Every sentence was another brick laid beneath my feet. I wasn't building an argument. I was building the bridge I used to leave.
A poetry library for the things that bruise us, the things that bloom anyway, and everything we become in between.
People ask if I regret sending them. No. I regret the reasons they had to be written. Every sentence was another brick laid beneath my feet. I wasn't building an argument. I was building the bridge I used to leave.
Leave a Reply