385 Days (Or a Story About 40 Mirrors)

385 Days (Or a Story About 40 Mirrors)

The work of being a writer means being called upon wherever words—in their neatness and finiteness—are needed to fill infinite spaces and describe the indescribable. This includes funerals. And so, I have penned eulogies to be read by friends, daughters, in-laws, and cousins as they mourned fathers and sons (always fathers and sons) at somber funerals. Sometimes I got to hear my words spoken as I sat amidst anguished pews in churches. More often than not, I did not.

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Giving Sexy Back

Giving Sexy Back

When I had reclaimed enough of my body to realize that it was mine to do with as I pleased—consensually, painfully, delicately, brazenly—I returned. Coming back to find my Sasha Fierce on those nights I wanted to disinter the long legs gifted to me as the tallest in my family. Repatriating on those hot summer days when I liked to watch the curve of my bosom rise on the beauty mark atop my heart, and their untrained eyes hover above my heart.

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Night

Night

Nights are the hardest. Drenched with anxiety over yet another night to be spent tossing and turning. A nightly routine predicated on the nagging fear of watching the clock yawn into the night, numbers falling off to be replaced by even more menacing ones. My heart beats faster. Unsure if I am more afraid of suddenly been caught awake in what are the sleeping hours or the fear that there is still much to be done.

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The Uncounted

The Uncounted

(TW) There are many of us who have learned to forget to remember. To speak with mouths closed, burying the resurrections of the past.

Only when the space feels safe, and rarely even so, do we reveal the hideousness that lies behind our eyes in those darkest of rooms. We have been called liars, drunk, careless, told that we were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or more often that it was our fault (or at least partially so). In our official records (where they exist) we are often nameless victims, our identities concealed from roving eyes.

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