refuse to fear might-be horrors. Fretting over what’s yet to kick me in the
jaw, in the gut, in the breast… is losing half the battle (perhaps the war).
Yes, I care. No, I’m not pretending or hoping it will go away--my monsters and I
sip honesty from the same clear cup. We slow dance brow-to-brow,
mouth-to-mouth, our hearts bleeding into each other’s ribs. When misery threatens
to kiss me, I show teeth, mount my muse, and devour those cruel lips (ink
at the ready).
by horn and halo, I ride
cackling into the storm
photo by Nicolas Thomas, on Unsplash
for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #89: You Laughed, You Cried, Now You Write.