I want to say that everything is easy.
There is hurt here, so much has been broken. There were so many gates left open too long, too much rust; you would get it if you were the kind of person who ‘gets’ things like this.
Instead, let me tell you what it feels like to grow.
There are no claw marks in my suffering, I have no desire to wrap my hands around my anger, I left it by the door, by the fork in the road; even indecision is a choice.
Even disappearing is a choice.
The car below my balcony stalls.
Someone, somewhere is having worse luck than I am.
The Refinerie 