Eyes open; sunlight pressing its tired hopeful nose against the horizon.
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I have wanted to leave home since I was thirteen years old, and the desire sings in my ribs even more strongly now.
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Our lives are composed of cycles within cycles.
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Dawn is portentous as any moment.
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At fourteen, I watched the sun rise not as the beginning of a new day, but as a continuation of the night before, an endless monotony.
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Somewhere I was still eleven, still spinning in a world of rabbit hearts and howling wolves, where music ran right next to me in the grass.
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It’s the last step before leaving my house, the last act required to start the day. I find the right playlist on my phone and click play.
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I don’t want to leave the busy sun, all the people who see me and still love me, everything in my life that has ever made sound.
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As a voice that is there but is not heard—because while all songs have a voice, not all of them require a human manifestation of such.
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For years, I wanted to diverge from my heritage, because to do anything else would be to assume the debt of being loved.
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