it starts with a story, a bottle of whiskey, a fucked-up childhood, and hunger.
for food.
for affection.
even the wrong kind.
it manifests and warps and forms into ever-growing shadows – the following kind – that remind you, at a moment’s notice, that you’re not safe.
not really.
have you ever been safe, you ask yourself?
there is no good answer.
there will never be a good answer.
don’t look but the shadows are looking.
bury your nose in a book and fall in love that way. quell the ache in your belly that way. grow up that way.
years later, once you’re an adult, you see them out of the corner of your eye. just a blip.
you drink.
you get hungry.
you begin to tell stories about the drinking, about the hunger.
but never about the childhood.
not until now.