Of all the things I've lost I just keep gaining

I might not ever be able to whistle again. I have a bumble bee in my lip forever. But someone still wants to kiss it, bumble bee and all.

I am in a new room. It is full of my things. It has three windows and I think this is symbolic. It has a floor where I will type love letters and make crafts and stretch and dance and vacuum. This is the first day of my new life again. I will be a farmer. I will make sprouts and bake bread and run out of money and be nervous about it. I will smell like earth and make love in a single bed. These are the things I think about now:

What is winning? What is progress?

I keep letting things go with one hand and grabbing at new things with the other.

Is this ok? Isn't this maturity?

My mother says I'm fickle and impatient.

I worry that I want too much and can do too little about it.

I worry about what it means to stop worrying. I've stopped worrying.

I expect nothing but dream of everything.

I will be a farmer and a wife and a chef and a mother and a spinster and a shop owner and none of these,

and any and none are all the same to me as long as I am happy and can have a dinner party every now and then.

She asked me "so you want to get married then?"

I said "I don't believe in marriage. I'd just like to have a wedding. I'd have pie instead of cake."

I mostly want to consume everything with all my senses. I want to crush loved ones into my body. I want to bite shoulders.