Dear Internet,

I suddenly want to start confessing my secrets to you.

Not THOSE secrets, no.

And not these either (I don't even know these):

Expression versus Exposure versus Exposition

Today someone reminded me that what I write here is not abstract. That it is actually opaque. Brutally not invisible.
It has weight, it often has a heart.

This has a heart! It is mine! It breaks, and I am prone to breaking it.

Dear Loneliness, there is a cup of coffee in another room; leave me to my wine.
Dear Tenderness, I need you; I don't need you.
Dear Memory, I have dipped my hands in beet juice and maple syrup. I can taste them now. They haven't left my tongue.

They have become my tongue.

And now, what is my tongue if it is not my tongue?

I hate that my skin holds these things, these things I am given, these things I take.
And yet, my skin, my greatest queen, desires me to kneel, and kneel is what I do best.

And I tear myself apart because I like to take action.