Curiousity killed the cat, What of it? I am not a cat and neither am I curious, I think.
I want to know and see, but few things hold my interest.
Lately I crave being craved, Lately I hate that I love the concave of my stomach when fasting for a smaller waist to contemplate in my mirror before going to work, Lately I’m waking up moody, Lately I’m grateful. Lately I need more sleep, Lately I’m not quite in the place I used to be, Lately I think I must be growing or changing because this new sense of knowing is gnawing so softly on my skin it feels like luxury.
I think I must be on the edge of an expansive biosphere of me, complete and untouched, because the vision of her is fading as my ten little prints and their oblong archless counterparts bring me closer to the edge.
Staring boldly, daring no one proving nothing peering down into my canyons.
Just on the edge of this cliff, feeling my wind my edges my rivers holding me up, And up, And up, And down so far below. Though it’s not down that I will go. It it through.
And richly on the other side I will emerge. But for now that is not my concern.
Standing on the edge, arms spread wide, I’m alive.