one that plagues my mind and makes me do somersaults in my sleep.

i want to daydream about apple picking and kite flying and baking banana bread together and cuddling in warm blankets on chilly nights.

i write with my fingertips now, hands on strange skin, tracing scars and highways.

i sleep by candlelight and talk in hushed whispers, tucked in and cast away by the notion that i will feel like myself some day soon.

blame it on me, if you'd like, but i prefer the uncertainty of pointing fingers.

prove me wrong.