The man creates a pseudonym and hides behind it like a worm

A little thing, like children putting flowers in my hair, can fill up the widening cracks in my self-assurance like soothing lanolin.

I ride earth's burning carousel. Day in, day out.

Every day is precious and I feel infinitely sad at this time melting away from me.

Widow. The word consumes itself.

Talking about my fears to others feeds it.

Let me not be weak and tell others how bleeding I am internally; how day by day it drips, and gathers, and congeals.