Poems are both the doing and undoing. Electric prayers and sonnets. Hope deeper than blood and bone. Wounds you can place your hand on. - Victoria Erickson

And you cannot build a home for your worth inside of another being.

Sometimes you must allow your eyes to adjust to a truer shape of something you’d once molded and possibly loved but perhaps never wanted. Something to unravel now, straight from these roots. Something that at some point, you loosened your fingers around. Something that at some stage, you finally outgrew. So allow this chapter to hold you in darkly wrapped nights while allowing desires to just be desires before lighting that flame stemmed from your longing and churned into fuel so when it is time, you’ll have enough strength to surrender to fire that holds the burn long enough to finally take flight.

Let’s not travel to tick things off lists, or collect half-hearted semi-treasures to be placed in dusty drawers in empty rooms. Rather, we’ll travel to find grounds and rooftops and tiny hidden parks, where we’ll sit and dismiss the passing time, spun in the city’s web, ‘til we’ve surrendered, content to be spent and consumed. I need to feel a place while I’m in it.