Nina 
My intensity never asked me for permission, never knocked on the door before tearing my chest. For whole nights this intensity devoured me, devoured all my poems. At high tide, insists on waking up memories, insists on bringing homesickness, insists on holding hands for anxiety. High tide,I drown in my own scream.
As I draw myself in shades of gray, on the horizon of this starless night, I know that tomorrow I’ll bloom, even before spring, I know that tomorrow I’ll bloom, between the lines of my chaos.
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