The sun sets late here in the north, lingers like in your home country, like a reluctant end, the familiarity feels comforting. I sit on the back porch letting my skin get cold, a swirl of poetry and stories and truths running laps through my insides. You came to the country to see more clearly, and you cannot take it back now. Sometimes the things we find by opening the door to hidden closets is exactly the monsters we feared would be there waiting.
The point is to turn the light on anyways, drag them out into the middle of the room, make them less fearful by revealing their edges. Every monster ends somewhere.
Even you.
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