There are worse addictions

My mom is coming! In one week! I have no idea what we are going to do yet, but I don’t care! I just hope the weather is nice and not like it is now – 40 and rainy and possible snow. I want her to enjoy our yard, the weeds and lumps and Iris that will explode purple any time now. The hammock needs a body – it begs for one every day swaying and sultry.

Yesterday, when I closed my work on the collection for the day, I got this terrible pang of fear that people might someday see it all, read it all – people I know who know me. People who know me, but have never seen these things inside me. I’m not sure I want my family to read it. Or my boyfriend for that matter. I only want strangers and people who understand that poets are not always what they write; they are also what they don’t write. We have sides not everyone can understand. We are like non-poets, we are like people that way. The exception is we a pulled to telling our truths like moths following an eerie lunar light and I am addicted.

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