I am
nobody's late nights on Saturday and I refuse to be
someone's Sunday morning regret. I am my own —
Wednesday evening breathing heavy, mouth and teeth stained
the color of bleeding sunsets, walking barefoot across your
roof. I'll let you hold my hand but only long enough to
assure you that I'm not as dead inside as I appear.
You'll have that look on your face that you're still
not entirely convinced and I'll have no words of
reassurance because neither am I. Between sips of wine
you'll tell me all about yourself and I'll sit
quietly when it's my turn. Because I will share wine with
anyone but I share myself with very few.
— Lucy Quin