Who notices the me back of the moon.
The mirror. The mirror doesn’t know you.
Quiet relief that the weekend is over. Platinum light gone down and gone down early.
I like the sensation of a loose form. Three pages at a sitting. Or thirteen fragments. Or fifty words. I feel safer. Enclosed. I’m in a quieter, less hysterical space.
The beginnings are slow and primordial.
Do I feel threatened All-the-Time? Do I think if I weaken myself, I’ll go undetected, and not draw the attention of predators? I don’t know.