We plan out lives out in
moments, around people, around
events. When things don't go
accordingly, our worlds fall
apart. And, when I write,

I write about the rubble:

the pieces of broken heart and
the fragments of happiness. When
there's no earthquake to make
mountains shake, the debris
isn't there. I can't write to

clear the dust. So I have to

write about others wreckage.
I pretend to know how to
handle their emotions when
I don't even know how to
build my life out of my own.

I just pretend to know.