Do not love her.

Love her.

Shake the world with your feet,

cup butterflies in your hands,

let them go.

I was young when my bike went flying without me down a hill and I,

so cleverly, pulled my body to the side and flew off into the grass of a

neighbor’s yard

and fetched the bike soon after.

I think I know how to jump ship.

I think I don’t know how to say “no” too well.

I think you found me,

though I am hiding, deep in a body, in a person.

I am like cancer, riddled and bone wasted and envious and intruding.

I am like the dove.

You capture me to let me go.