her days were a struggle between holding on and letting go          

the way home

          “But every memory is turned over and over again, every word, however chance, written in the heart in the hope that memory will fulfill itself, and become flesh, and that the wanderers will find a way home, and the perished, whose lack we always feel, will step through the door finally and stroke our hair with dreaming, habitual fondness,…


        she once made me a rag doll with a mop of yellow yarn hair          

dream on repeat

          I’m 16 I smell of Love’s Baby Soft and everything is pink and fresh and romantic like a love letter