My body has grown soft. Soft and brittle, hard to move, easy to bruise. Skin that shifts a little too freely over fat, pulled loose and drooping. My skin didn't toughen with age, but instead grew soft, like the peel on a rotted fruit.
Category: Who Am I?
Quarantine, mi quarantena, my "forty days" as I begin the next forty years, a day for a year, a story for a stain, a shoe for no one
Forgotten, dismissed, discarded, boxed, and buried. There are so many things I need to let go of...
My Ritalin is making me tired.
Fairy tale tropes for a midwestern gothic are tantalizingly familiar, and when I think of home I see them all, their archetypes and allegories, characters we connect with in a malaise not beyond a garden wall, but right here, with us— in a place of enervated belief and heuristic magic.