Kindle Notes & Highlights
If I pretend I never learned to kiss the ground and call it lover, I never buried myself under the carcass of everything I used to trust. Nothing went wrong. I laugh along with the song of my own undoing. Never tell anyone how I forgot to go home. How I couldn’t. How I don’t know where I left the key.
What does the forest lose before it trusts the sun again? What does it cost to reach for warmth and mistake it for war? How does it unlearn the fear of beauty, wildness, becoming a target? Will I ever cease building myself into a castle of kindling? Does the firefly hate the hands that trapped it or the glass jar it died inside? Does it live long enough to choose?
Love is alive in me, Dad. I love myself, Dad. You could give up on me now and I wouldn’t starve. But I’d never be full.
I forgive myself and, always, myself is also you.
