Sep 17, 2024
In the spring I emerged slowly and then all at once. I have spent every day since getting used to the prospect of being okay, telling my jaw to unclench and shoulders to drop for good. I hesitated to let myself believe it would last until belief dripped in through the covers I had pulled over my head. The defense was never impenetrable but I marveled at the first inkling anyway—Maybe it will stay okay.
This inkling, now having been swallowed, sits in my stomach as the year swings around to September once again. Does this mean the dread has nowhere to go? Am I allowed to tell it I’m not hungry, I am full enough with life and there is no need to stay?
trickle down orange / helena ducusin
