Image of a Mirror (“Final” Edit)

“But where am I in the stories I tell?” – Dorothy Allison, “2 or 3 Things I Know For Sure” I washed my body, polished it til it shone on all things that were not housed inside of it. I became a mirror; reflected what I saw and called it my own image. Part 1:…

Image of a Mirror (First Draft)

I washed my body, polished it til it shone on all things that were not housed inside it. I became a mirror; reflected what I saw and called it my own image. Part 1: Blood I was told how much I looked like my mother. I was told how my sister looked and acted nothing…

On Remembering

I do not try to remember. I’ve always liked keeping my memory soft. Hazey. Indistinguishable. Makes it easier to exist. Remembering simply leads to more hurt than necessary. Remembering simply leads to a past that no longer exists. Leaves me seeing a future that could have been, but died long before I realized I could…

My Mother’s Hands

Her hands are not unlike mine. We share the same nailbeds, which is to say, we both have claws. But I’ve never seen her grow them out. Perhaps, she too, notices how brittle they get when we let them grow, how easy it becomes for them to break. More often than not, our nails are…