Aug 3
i keep thinking there must be a species of hand that exists for creatures like me, a pale thing bred in estuaries, a careful thing, capable of touching without taking. instead there are fingers everywhere with their little appetites. i have been turned over and over like river gravel.
and if those hands never arrive? i don’t know. perhaps i become a myth to my own neighbours. perhaps i retreat so far inward that sunlight has to introduce itself twice. perhaps i spend years speaking only to kettles and trees. even then i suspect some part of me would remain facing the door.