Who would I be
without the story of me?
Would I cease to exist
if I no longer had the same list
of words to describe me?
If the rug were pulled out
and I were to come crashing down
what would my world look like then?
The fear of losing what is dear
is the worst kind of hell
So I’ll step out of my shell,
I’ll lose the cocoon
and not a moment too soon.