I always wind up writing about myths. It makes sense.
For me to still want to believe in these non-truths.
Some people have religion. I have dried flower petals
pressed between book pages. I have folklore about the
moon. I have a form of comfort food that sours my
stomach most days. To choke around the wishbone,
the grime of it all. To drink the candle wax.
To so desperately want to feel warm from the
inside out. Every urban legend has something in
common: this haphazard hope of believing in something
so unreal you can almost touch it. I get it. To love
something intangible. To sink your teeth into your own
skin. To sit here and watch the wound scab over.
For this to be the closest you can ever get to
forgiveness. A sky you can’t quite reach, but god,
we all sit around and hope to one day be tall enough.