If I could place my hands around a piece of the past, I’d crush it and rebuild it, then forgive it all over again. I’m saying sorry to myself. My mind wasn’t well. I couldn’t separate the feeling from home from anything else. I think about progress and how it suits me. I wear it well. Seasons grant change and I unraveled without question. I let the tides take me solely for the purpose of growing- and the bloom was painful. Roots ripping from the center- torn pedals and thorns. But it flourished in some ways. I still feel panicky, but I’m told that’s part of grieving. With sadness there’s some sort of love- it’s connected like my mind and spirit. My nightmares still ricochet across every space between my brain. I dream of suffering and longing for a home that’s no longer mine. I dream of being seventeen. I dream of my father. I dream of an illness that sunk its claws to the core of us all. I dream of how it took and took and took until there was nothing left to take. These worlds turn inside out and I collide somewhere in between. I’ve built lifelines within my universe and use them when I need it. So when the moon asks the sun for a favor, I’m right fucking there, and watch it rise every time. -AMT