I asked if you kept the old habits. You smiled without teeth and said, “the best place to hide track marks is between your toes.” You wear your wounds so plain in your messiah sandals.
Read MoreNow, as I am one year and seven months from thirty, I understand the infinity of growing old. I imagine myself as recycled clay. Formed into this year, grabbed by another and shaped into that one—but where is the kiln? Where is the sun that dries the grapes?
Read MoreI still think about the endocrinologist lifting my shirt to see how my ribs were jutting out of the skin.
Read MoreI'm not asking for much. I want to feel human.
Read MoreShe calls me petulant. Maybe she’s right.
Read MoreWords are only half of how we speak.
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