Tag: nonfiction
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sitting with myself
Nothing has yet to capture the veins sprawling across my chest. I’ve tried to draw, photograph, or trace them with my fingers long enough to commit their pathways to memory. Yet, no luck. The cloudy blue and muddy greens bookending each channel always pale into my pinky flesh. The softness of the delta never translates.…
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thoughts i’ve had any day
i was going to read on this train, but i slept and scrolled. should i have texted my father for fathers day? should i have shaved my head the week i said i would? how can i pretend i know how to sculpt my hair for an evening. Is that google-able? what if i had…
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six versions of the same/maybe sentences won’t start with “I” soon
I spent five integral maturing years participating in hormone therapy. Medical professionals and I played with my body like putty until it grew stale and cracked at the edges. Rather, we extruded it between our digits until the material no longer had desire to bind together. Speaking to this in the past tense feels unfoundedly…
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