Things happened. I don’t remember when things happen, but dents on my shins, dents on my car remind me. Timelines sink into dishwater; my hands hold the line, and they hold lines.

My friends connect to me, throw lines, hooks catch into skin. There is nothing to pull because my skin comes off like a lizard’s, with any thought, a whisper of dead cell shell.

If you bring me a toaster, I would have to make bread, so don’t bring me a toaster. This is how I see problems in my life: I avoid because there are steps in between to solving them.

Please don’t ask me for my advice. Right now, I would advise you against anything. Snowboarding? Hair-dying? Marriage? Travel? Avoid it all; everything can and will kill you. Or parts. Or break your arm. Or make you sneeze.

I’m allergic to it all, to myself, to each day I want to relax but instead look and see unfinished everything, unfinished me. There is so much yet to do, and that once filled me with awe and hope, excitement, stomach-flips. Today I see it all as more things I can’t even approach. Do I wave? Do I say hello? You can always just pretend you didn’t see them. That will save us all the trouble.

Save us all, all of us, the trouble.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.