My room nineteen is a space in my head. I go there. Or it is my writing practice, which I will not show to anyone. I give only bits and pieces and the dark spirit of the thing is kept hidden, a retreat from the world.
I would like people to
understand me but I will never show them my interior. We dreamers and dark souls appear as angels but
only our demeanor is. Beneath the kindness lies a demon.
I read that story and was afraid.
Afraid I saw myself
Afraid I saw my future
Afraid I saw my children motherless
Afraid I saw my husband widowed
Afraid
Afraid is all I’ve ever been
But comforted when someone writes a story about you across time and space.
1.0 You are (not) alone.
-a.e
A.M. EDMONSON 