I still don't know what to make of things.  Of you. Every day I run away,  every day I come back.  I don't know how to ask.  I don't know what the question is.

When did I stop trusting myself? When did I start? Are we born that way? Trusting? Like mindless pets. Listen to her,  she said.  Listen to her,  and hold her,  and buy her things,  and read her favorite book,  and love her so much that it spills out. Love her so much that there won't be any room left for fear or sad or angry or broken,  or hurt.

There is a lifetime left here. Or maybe just nine months. Remember that my dear.  When things are hard.  Remember that.