In my next life, if I choose to exist again. I want a script written in lowercase ink. Let the thunderstorms calm my bones and let the rain washes away my fears and ghosts. Let the tragedy knock on my door gently. Let it not take my grandmother from me before I could memorize all her laugh-lines, her wrinkles and all her ways of peeling oranges like she was unwrapping sunlight.

Give me childhood this time, a real one, with scraped knees, school projects, messy braids and parents who love me unconditionally. Let me witness their silly arguments on the kitchen table but showers of kisses and belly laughs too. Let me be a kid this time rather than learning how to mend my own wounds.

Let literature find me first. Let me be a writer with ink-stained fingers, tendrils stuck in a messy braid remembering all the stories I read as a kid. Someone whose apartment has novels more than fine china in the kitchem. Let me stand in the classroom with windows open to the afternoon sunlight, reciting poetry with a voice that never shakes with fear.