Promising this time 
to own my ending honorably,
I put a sign on the door,

but the more people learn of
my sacred room,
the more cluttered it seems to get.

They stay too long,
leave things behind;
some moments its hard to breathe

around all the questions
and holdings
and prophesies.

The far window gets blurry when you
hold me so tight,
hand me everything you’ve been

holding–
here love, take these with you—
your eyes plead with me

to keep you safe as I go:
magic mother, gallant sailor, rogue child,
what is the recipe for safety?

— Julia Daye