My fear of being forgotten feels so selfish, feels so foreign. I mean, does it really make sense for someone to love making love to their pillows more than the man from across the street that would love her for free?
Does it make sense to want the love and appreciation from people who wouldn’t blink an eye in her direction even if she were engulfed in emotionally temperamental fires?
How could she want commitment from others when she couldn’t keep promises to herself?
How can she explain her bouts of darkness? Where nothing made her smile. Not her food, not the cafe con Leche, not the bed she made love to.
She just wants to be seen, felt, heard, but she has some presence to give first.