Could I clutch onto my mother’s skirts forever, and follow the comfort Into the arms of heaven? Can I believe in this goddamn faith that my siblings are my first children? Can I hang onto the thread, the semblance of the unusual, the ordinary, the taste of my own knowledge? Should I share the love I don’t have or distribute it to those who do? Do I keep knocking on your hypothetical door till you find the time to sing to me that you love me true? Should I, must I, can I belie