I don’t know if I can rake this all up again.
It’s too close to the surface as it is
and requires no watering to grow,
there’s no need to hoe, and the seeds
were sown so long ago and so deeply
burrowed – I am borrowing memories
that never run out, I go back in time
every time I write a single line and
it’s scaring me so much right now
I just can’t.

I don’t know if I can do this Lynch syndrome memoir/self help book thing. I think it might be too hard. I’m going to try anyway, but I’m afraid I’m committing myself to something that is going to be more of an emotional struggle than it’s worth. I will press on. Just not tonight. Writing is hard for so many different reasons.