Today I feel as if I’ve lost all of my tenderness. I’m all sharp edges. I need the mountains and forests of the North to feel whole, but the more I need them the faster they move away.
I don’t know how to make sense of this life. People tell me not to give up, to keep trying, unaware that I’ve been trying since the day I was born.
I tiptoe around, terrified to breathe normally in case I scare the good things away.
Last night I was up late. The moon was the colour of cinder toffee. I didn’t know what to make of its strange beauty. I went to sleep afraid I would choke on my sorrow.