I am a renaissance woman, in the sense that I’m not yet 30 and I’ve held
nearly 20 different jobs, not a single one like the last, I’ve held many
different hands intimately in my small clinging child-like grasp and let go.
I cry at the same news story once a year: this is what it means to be my age,
we all do it but we don’t talk about it face to face, we just tweet about it.
I save my soul with music because that’s the closest I let empathy come to me,
I choke out my own salvation and then write about it everywhere in space
to make sure you believe me, that I am believable and repetitive, so it’s catchy,
so you feel me.
Let’s not know how to end things — together,
in the same way that we can never do anything for long because it grows cold
and we grow paralyzed with confusion, realizing that contentment is a plateau
stretching out never-ending to the horizon; it bores us, we’re restless til death.