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More Me


I’m ready for something to find me.

I stand atop my caving roof, trusting its fall, and find the rabbit hole leads nowhere. There are promises on the way down that leave a glint in my eye only love could ever create, but they grow heavy against my skin—bitter against my tongue. I’m not going to give up on the plan entirely, that would be a waste. A waste of my time and spirit.

The simplicity that I lost with age can’t have been for nothing. To be ungrateful for the loss—all that has been ripped away from my naive hands—would be a misuse of energy. A poor purpose to put upon the reenforced walls I built in reaction to, well, everything.

So, I let them grow. Let the space become overwhelmed by the armor, my concept of necessary protection, and wait for the success to find me. Is it gullible to believe any entity would put in the effort to peel the steel coffin off my body, bolt by bolt?


Many will attempt the feat, promising their palms have yet to be scathed, and that they will quickly find triumph in their digging, fingernails not ready to be ripped by the desperation. Their voice later following their feet out the door.

My hands have grown bloody over the years of demolishing these compulsive layers. I would be dishonest to say I haven’t formed many more over the course of my life. Taking any materials that provide warmth—I wrapped everything around myself, with no concern for the future: living inside a body unaccustomed to the harsh climate.

Don’t assume the task is impossible. Healing is all anyone can do, and I plan on joining the movement by moving from my bed. Letting clean find my skin, along with fresh air’s grasp. I will let the wind take me and remain trusting in the unknown.

In turn, my cocoon will weaken and find a home amongst the dirt that my soles beat into the ground, running unapologetically, in search of something more comfortable—more me.

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