1-3-17

I can see where I was born. Three hours to the left, or shorter if you can fly. It doesn’t matter where I’ve been, because this grabby pit pulls me right back. The longer I stay, the more I see that I’m only talking to myself. You yell “What about now, Maya? What about me?” And I know that I’m still talking to myself while you watch my face and think about sunflowers and chocolate.