Sit with me for a moment.
I am Deborah, and this one is about me.
Everything I have ever written is about how I learned to sew.
Not clothes but words.
I wrote a book once as a child, told a friend about it.
He called me a liar and said I should recite everything word for word.
He was mad.
This is a piece of a life time, something I might feel in years and hang my head.
Not with ropes – but thoughts.
I’ve written letters once to an unborn daughter.
They are stored up in the lines you might like.
In these nonsense sentiments you humans enjoy.
Dear Daughter, blah blah. Make money.
Angels wept when I tore up my diaries.
They pointed “It’s about time”
Well, What do they know?
Someone said to me “The world is burning, Debby. Be generous with hugs”
“What is your point? Hell or hugs?”
I am a story spilling endlessly.
Yesterday, I held between my hands the warm face of a girl.
Her eyes were filled with leaping questions.
I walked away before they ambushed me.
I don’t have the answers.
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