.*̥ॱ*ॢ̴̴͈͈́̀*ॢॱ̥*̣.*̥ॱ*ॢ̴̴͈͈́̀*ॢॱ̥*̣

I write things.

I hate myself.

Rinse and repeat.

.*̥ॱ*ॢ̴̴͈͈́̀*ॢॱ̥*̣.*̥ॱ*ॢ̴̴͈͈́̀*ॢॱ̥*̣.

I've come this far with a different map in each of my hands.

They're drawn completely from memory.

One takes me home, one takes me nowhere in particular.

I always seem to pick the path with all the shortcuts open

And the lines and the circles more steadily drawn.

I always seem to say the things that I had promised I would leave unspoken

And act surprised when they come tumbling out into the air and sounding wrong.

I never thought of what would happen if I ever found the gate closed,

Tethered in rusted thread and iced over blue and grey from the cold.

But the gate holds, allowing entrance to the wind and smaller leaves and I am stuck now, homebound.