Holiday87

i grew up in the woods, telling stories to nobody.
i was loud in a quiet place.
so i left.
and somewhere in the leaving
i stopped believing i could do it alone.
i got good at telling everybody else’s story instead.
it was easier.
a story is the most personal thing you can hand somebody.
some people tell their own.
i think i was scared of what mine would look like finished.
the beginning was still there.
back before anything had left a mark.
i spent a year looking for pieces i didn’t know were missing.
i went a long way to find things that were already somebody’s.
all of this is borrowed.
a melody somebody else made.
a voice that isn’t mine.
a child i’ve never met.
what if it was never about where the pieces came from?
it’s still mine.

BLINK