What I'm doing

I can't say I know what I'm doing

I pulled out my notebook with a sentence on top of each page

"Just one sentence?"

And that's all it took for me to stop writing.

She knows shame, too. And this would be the last thing she intended, but my shame well runs deep. Just look at me with slightly off kilter eye contact and I'm convinced there's

something

wrong

with

me.

It's not a new story

It's an old one

A tired one

One worth tossing.

This time last year I didn't even know it had taken up residence.

This year it has a name;

This year there is more choice.