Incubator

What lives in me. The horror of it. The delight. All the memories and the madness and the girlish glee and the laughter that came too loudly. I keep so much that others discard. I hold on to so much that others release. Sometimes, demons are formed. And they rise up and upset things and eventually melt away into ice cream. I was never able to hold a grudge. To my doom.

There are scars. Left by words so cruel, they cauterized as they cut. Left by knives of fancy and deceptively pretty thorns. I gave myself to them like any fool. I learned to expect the sting, but came to hope it would soften. I have had dreams where I was invisible. And afraid of getting caught.

But I have come to believe that the valley is lush and verdant and worth discovering. As are the mountaintops. I have no plan of escape. Where would I escape to? I will linger. I will diminish. I will swell into fury and fire. I am not resigned to extremes. Nor am I assigned to any one outcome. I don't believe in fate. I prefer the irresolute randomness of folly. I prefer to believe that I will stumble into what lies ahead. I am so prone to stumbling.

I am devising an incantation. But I am convinced it will never work.

But if of ships I now would sing, what ship would come to me
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a sea?