comfort; a sin and a saint,
false hopes and warmth
between the sheets of cotton.
weaving my hands into the threads,
my hair binding feathers and freckles
to this tiny piece of satisfaction
amongst the twisted doubts of December.

episodes of expectations;
hollow danger diseases threaten my
humor, humanity, humility;
i am frightened that my future
will implode, that the earth is dying,
that my words are not good enough,
that i am not good enough.

so this comfort i am clinging to,
sinking my nails into, resting
my head upon,
is keeping me from moving forward,
but saving me from giving up;
my stagnant sanctuary of twenty-two.