rara borboleta

I want the universe to know I can write about small things. And by small, I don’t mean brain-clot-small, I don’t mean prison-cell-small, I don’t mean urn-of-ashes-small, I mean, door-hinge-small. I could write about door hinges. I could find a story there. I see beauty there. One time, a contractor told me that most door […]

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not out of the woods

Last night wasn’t the first night of un-sleep, but it was the first night I took medicine for it. Medicine that decided I needed awakeness more than it needed to do its job. I got out bed to write instead, but it was too cold, too dark. Earlier in the day, it had been too […]

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journal: blue chip

I write a lot about water lately, and my therapist thinks that means something, but sometimes I just want to work with a certain kind of clay. It’s already made. I want to exhaust it, to use every piece while it’s fresh in my hands. Can you imagine how long it’ll take me to shoot […]

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you are loved, in the active voice.

I don’t remember learning how to love, originally.  I only remember the origins of little love-habits. I remember holding onto my stuffed elephant, tucked safely in my right arm always– a light grey beast with pink-tinted ears. He must’ve been a foot tall, if he could have stood on his own, but he couldn’t. He […]

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