Lately, I’ve been pondering the finality of closed doors, how they tend to leak a darker possibility through the hinges, Schrödinger-like, and the chances leaving them ajar can blossom.

Take a deep breath. Remind your body that it’s not trapped, you are a creature of choice and determination. Stretch. Sometimes the walls can seem to meet before your very feet, but it’s just a passing thought. Exhale, through nostril flare. Repeat.

It’s sort of funny when- at the end of a hallmark week, where everything fell apart and then coalesced, gleaming, into the cherry on top at the last second- you experience a homecoming: of you, coming back into yourself, owning every blessed corner of your home. Welcome back, we’ve missed you.

There’s too few people here to get lost in the thrum of it all. I’m so conscious of being perceived on here, I can’t even subtweet about *you*.

I hear you, false Cassandra, follicle-chilling wails in your lair. I hear you, where understanding lies, unruffled and turns not even a hair.
And yet, a part of my heart outside my grasp slicks, wettens, and— fish-like —slips between the weavings of your design.