Twelve and my breasts begin their slow swell, moon-bright in the seventh month of my slumber. This strange sheen, as within the begonia’s waxy heart, my neck spreading its blush when, in front of my…
Browsing Category Prose, Poetry, and Art
Body of Actual
I always wanted to be a weatherwoman. It was a simple and steady flight inside of me that encountered little turbulence. I liked being at the center of something so fundamental, something that affected everyone,…
Drive Me Home
Where I live, abandoned buildings lean precariously towards roads carved by oxen the first time they sloughed this forest to the ground. The only road to my home is held in place by roots of…
Liquid Skin
Under the bad neon hardware store lighting in brunch and boutique Ranelagh I flap a six-tint color swatch at my med school classmate. As if a ticket on a commuter train, nudging to get hole-punched…