Letter From My Brain to My Heart by Rachel McKibbens
This house is dirty, but comfortable. Behind each crooked door waits the angry weather of a forgiveless child. I cannot help but admire this horrible power of mine, how each small thing can become a death: the lost house key. A spoiled egg. A howling dog. There is no prayer or pill for this. It is a ruthless botany; I might as well be buried in the yard. I have no one to blame. Not the mother who sang to an empty cradle. Not the Dog of Spite who bit my hand, just this long-legged sorrow who trails my every joy like a dark perfume.
You have my permission not to love me; I am a cathedral of deadbolts and I’d rather burn myself down than change the locks.