It is the year of the water tiger. When I lower my head underwater in the seventies
bathtub, I think not of surfacing. This is when the tenacious tigress strips from the power
of its stripes and surrenders. It is on my mind too many days. But when I accidentally
spilled clary sage oil on my fingertips, I rubbed it into my skin as if I never wanted to let
the sensation go.

A woman jumped from a building and no one saw it coming. I’ve told a select few of my
ice-cold ideations. Of the chill bone aching air that tingles my arms and gnaws at my
stomach when I can’t envision tomorrow. They turn the page of the air and pretend those
words weren’t typed into the ether. Everyday is an anniversary of making it out alive. Of
waking with the waxing sun, swaying with acacia trees, enveloping the arms of
worthiness.