One     Two     Three
Punch
Bowling into memory
Not there
Don’t remember
WHO IS THAT?
Painted whore
Valued as nothing
Given everything
Too common
To Rebel
Too sharp
To Educate
Too female
To consider an equal.
Nesting as the egg
Flying as the chicken.

Sometimes memories hit me like a brick.  The only ones that hurt sprout from insecurity.  The persistent fear of judgement.  Ghosts floating through me when I least expect it.  Blood-chilling.

All that’s changed is how I react to the fear.  I let it pass through me and skip ahead to the part where it doesn’t really matter.  Teetering on the edge of nothing mattering at all – that’s the precipice.  Depression and nihilism do not mix well.

It’s a constant balancing act.