praise

because the truth is you don't trust praise
because when you praise its from a mind that feels so blank you're astounded that the words could form and somehow reference the vaguest of specifics and you're never sure you've managed it legibly but manage it you did despite your hunger

and you'll know this peace you've carved from granite will not last forever it will weather
but it's enough that it's for now, and it's enough that it's for now, and it is enough that it's for now

and it will roll and coast and roll and coast with the rhythms of your body and the prickly hypercritical hyperlexic child you've always been dripping the dictionaries and glossaries and lyra belacqua's and artemis fowls and alan/alanna's of trebond and georgia nicholsons you tried to learn to be yourself from

and you will learn that for some, your self will never be a fit. And you will learn that unfitting can be theirs as much as yours. And you'll carry the mismatches with you in the cracks in your voice as you relearn how to sing around and in who you are becoming

And who you have been trying to be will rot around the woodchips and dead leaves you scatter in when you can manage and you'll become warm and dense and hand stainingly dark and rich and ready to grow yourself back.