Luisa

“I love you. I love you, but I’m turning to my verses and my heart is closing like a fist.”

I am told that nature is healing. I look out at the lake and I see only a mirror that refuses to blink. The forest does not care that I am here, nor would it care if I vanished. There is a terrifying comfort in that. The books surrounding me are filled with men and women who died centuries ago, yet their frantic, ink-stained attempts to define the human condition are still breathing. I am adding my own breath to the pile. My own aching fingers. I am still the observer, still the distortion, still the mistake that learned how to transcribe its own ruin.

“There are no limits to what I could do.”