It's my fault.
I walked under that open ladder.
It's my fault.
I broke that mirror in the 7th grade. I stepped on a crack in the sidewalk,
I made the cracks that others have stepped on.
It's my fault.
I didn't forward that email.
Years later, I chose not to share that post.
It's my fault.
I work for a man who opens umbrellas inside.
Years before, I worked for a man who sent me to prison.
It's my fault,
and I never claimed it wasn't,
and if you're really really lucky,
maybe your life
can be all your fault, too.
It's my fault.
I married a handsome man who loved me, a man who I loved,
a good man.
It's my fault,
I got all A's in classrooms, but then went to prison
and got a C in firefighting.
It's my fault.
I questioned God.
I questioned Science.
I questioned
my own
heart,
my own
history.
It's my fault.
I wore white to my wedding.
I wore blue to his funeral.
I wrote in a book.
I wrote a book.
I stepped on a crack
and maybe that's why
I broke my own back.
I stepped on a crack
and maybe surviving it
is why I have a story
at all.
It's my fault.
I carried a talisman.
I found a four-leaf clover.
I blew out all my candles
with one breath.
It's my fault.
I mixed my triumphs and disasters in the same bowl.
I never even put the divider between my grocery and yours.
I eat my salad with the same fork as my dessert.
Once, I used the same fork for 6 months straight.
Once, I was given a fork and forbidden a pen...
which makes sense.
I'm far more dangerous with a pen.
Just look what I've done with my own story.
Sometimes the ink smears and beloved pages float away.
Sometimes the words come to life in my nightmares and make me scream,
sometimes they stab into my readers and make them cry,
sometimes they make us bleed as mournfully as my pen.
I live my life.
I write my life.
I write.
It's my own fault,
and if you're very lucky,
then your life
is your fault, too.
