Once upon a time. It’s a simple start, but it gets
more complicated. Buckle up, because
we go over more hills and hairpin
turns than downtown San Francisco.
And don’t expect the truth, either.
We’ve already established that I’m
an unreliable narrator. But I’ll fill
my poetry with enough metaphors
to satisfy my audience. Until I’m tired.
Or stressed. Then I’ll disappear, tucked
inside my bed to hide from the world.
Authors want control of a world that
they’ve made. Characters who behave
in predictable patterns, who’s hair
stays the same color, unchanging in
their appearance. Not like the fall leaves.
Each year, my face looks different.
I always lose my breath after
running sprints. Chest aching for