I measure my worth in pink patterned pyrex bowls passed down through someone else's generations. Mismatched socks on toes that grew behind my belly button. Teenage leg hair and a fridge filled with forgotten film, and the outline of a song gone silent. 

I met a girl once, who drank a cup of chamomile tea each night to counter the cost of a life spent just inside the comfort zone. She had big lips and a French accent and a million dollar mansion, a head heavy with regrets and addictions insurmountable. You can worship false gods if you're not careful. I could have seen past her pain and thought she was perfect because she was so polished. It could have been so easy to do.  

And all I want to do is write books. And all I want to do is take pictures. And all I want to do is hide inside my knitting basket and pry purls from the sealed shut mouths of sailors and scaredy cats. 

Sometimes I am afraid that the things that matter most to me don't matter. Sometimes, I wish I was motivated by money. I wish I was motivated by popularity. I wish I didn't love my tiny two bedroom on the third floor with no elevator so damn much but it forces us to share bedrooms and biographies and beginnings.

It's confusing this wanting to spill it all out with others, but wanting to stay safe at the same time. The game of hide and go seek out the comfort of swimming lessons and soccer practice.  Mother/artist/animist with paperthinskin and a will made of (dande)lion's teeth.  

I wish so badly I didn't care so much what you think of me and my collection of crocheted afghans woven by stranger's hands. Is it possible to care so deeply about the world around you but shut off just the part of what the world around you thinks about you caring about them? Can I get a map from triple a with the route hi lighted in yellow, please? The easy way, please. 

Lately I've been wondering, at the end of it all, will I be proud of the choices I made to stay small? Or, will I count the shooting stars outside my bedroom window, no longer able to walk, wondering what it would have been like to dance in the stratosphere and burn in bright hues of orange and ego? Is a fall from grace any less graceful than a fall from mediocracy?