never-ending hunger for more

Cold, harsh winds settle into the cracks of my bones. The blue and white striped shirt I bought to look “all grown up” and be taken seriously, rather than a baby-faced girl playing life, is now soaked, sticking to my skin. Showing every curve my 15-year-old self would kill me over still having. Clear blue folder held over my head, running down the Quay. Like some intern in an indie or fashion movie, the humble beginnings before the big break into the industry.

There’s little in the folder, flopping over my head. Scraps of paper, trying to make it look like I know what I’m doing, I don’t need to know what I’m doing. Because I am doing it regardless.

Doing it all with dried blood on my Achilles heel, soaked skin, and a never-ending hunger for more. I don’t know what exactly is more. But I will get it. Even if I’ve to stretch on my tippy toes, fumbling like a lost lamb. I will get it