Dear Wigleaf,

When I first met him, a friend of mine told me that I did not know how to hate, as if hating was like playing the piano. Now I'm angry at the people I love, strangers, people who love me. Anger is not the same as hate, I know. I'm still practicing.

Tonight I went down a Google-hole and ended up in an old place. I am folding up tighter and tighter on myself and I'm pretty sure that my scapulae, my wing-bones, are going to fracture. Everything is changing and I'm not ready for it to change and as a result I am always tense, like I'm about to get hit.

Tonight, I'm dogsitting at a friend's house south of town. The office window overlooks a path next to a creek that is beautifully quaint in daylight. Just now, though, I walked past it with the dog on a leash and the creek was terrifying. There's not much moon and it was just this slip of ink roping through darkness. I got scared and ran back through the cold with the dog puffing behind me. I'm inside again. I'm not sure what I was running from.

She, the dog, is sleeping. Earlier, she chomped at golden flecks of dust that floated through the air. Before that, she barked as I came through the door. Before that – way before – I was born.

There's not much you can do about a thing like that.



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