Hail Mary Hail Mary Hail Mary

I'll never let go, God.

It's just... I'm worried.

again.

You know I never really stress, but when I do stress I stress about becoming. And right now I'm scared I've become something for the first time that my 5 year old self wouldn't approve of.

God, everyday I lay in my bed and I look at the stars spinning on my ceiling.

They have their own time. And I've always envied that about them.

The way they twist steadily on their strings in the slowest motion reminds me every time that there is so much more than just me and my time and my heart and my pleasure and my mistakes and my decisions and my darling and my lover and my curls and my teeth and my neck and my desires and my dislikes and my guilty pleasures.

They remind me that I am so much smaller than I think I am.

Every time I think I'm bigger than myself and I put myself out in the world into a scene of unknown, I think about my stars and I know they're still strung to the ceiling of my bedroom, still spinning slowly and intimately, waiting for me to come home again.

I envy their dependability.

I've been taking on smells like I take on other people's personalities.

My hair smells like my breakfast and my skin smells like his cologne. My shirt smells like a different boy's deodarant and it's all clashing terribly. With every smell was a personality and as they all mix together, I am lost.

God, even my personality is undependable.

I wish you could help.

My 5 year old self was dependable and you can see it with radiance in every old family video. 

Maybe because she never depended on anyone but herself to make her happy. Maybe because she was still fresh from your heaven. Maybe because she had strong opinions and sang for everyone. Maybe because she was never ever scared of anything. But dogs.

I wish I could tell her that they won't bite, but I'm still scared.

The fear-list has just surpassed the stars since she's been gone. 

She was wonderfully brave.

I miss her.

God, I want to meet her again.

I want to meet 5 year old Phyllis and tell her that maybe she should stay the leader.

Maybe she shouldn't have cut her hair. Though the curls all came back, it took much too long.

I'll tell her that maybe I became beautiful just for her.

and that I started to paint again, just for her.

Maybe I started to sing again, just for her.

Maybe I love him and the stars he uses to keep me near, just for her.

Maybe she is what ruined me.

Maybe she is proud of me.

Maybe we could meet up for lunch sometime.

I want nothing more than to hang from that ceiling by the threads I use to keep me here.

To spin silently and in perfect balance with the real stars in the sky. Turn with the sun and the full moon, Pluto and God. I want to move to the same rotation as you, God.

I want nothing, but to be small again.

I still am so small, God.

Keep me small, God.