ESSAYS


Autumn is the hardest season
Published on medium's human parts

I remember smashing my forehead into the scratchy carpet of my mouse-and-cockroach-infested basement apartment and angling my hips up, rocking back and forth into a half somersault. I remember saying “no” so many times it felt like it wasn’t a word anymore, just a way of crying.

in which we try to maintain better posture
published on this recording 

My mother talks about the troubles of getting him here, how he went to bed and loudly refused to get out. He sits directly across from her and I realize he is not listening or, more likely, does not know it is him we are speaking about. 

 

The defiant act
published on Medium's HUman Parts

Once, when I asked if I could read my writing out loud, he said it sounded like I was casting a spell. I kept a death-grip on this sentence for months, refusing to release the idea that I had bewitched him, finally. That my words could do something for us.


THINGS YOU MAY NOT KNOW
Published on This Recording

People often think I am safe. Children and animals are correct. People are often wrong. I have been mistaken for a mirror, a punching bag, a solution. I have never been the solution.


DAYS WITHOUT EARTHQUAKES
Published on FlipCollective

Sometimes I forget the mountains, but today my eyes search for them through the Lorax-like clearings of trees ripped away by logging companies. Everything is a muted, dusty brown. The trees and ferns that line the roads are covered in layers of it. There is no sign of the island’s many mountains. What I think is lingering mist in the air, I soon realize, is also dust.

OTHER THAN MYSELF
Published on This Recording

I read several essays about travel and home and all of them make me cry. I am exhausted with constantly bathing myself in nostalgia and rinsing it off with other people’s well-crafted sentences. Cities are beginning to mean less to me. Nostalgia is, too. You can be miserable anywhere. You can be happy, too. I am tired of tallying up my sins and organizing them by zip code.


ALL ADVENTUROUS WOMEN DO
Published in Medium's Human Parts 

He clips and I feel it in the very center of my body. I wonder how they can say, every time, every doctor, that I may want to take an ibuprofen an hour before, I might have slight cramping. The pain shoots up my spine, arching my back and opening my jaw to my chest. My eyes don’t squeeze shut until I realize I have been staring wide-eyed at the lights long enough to make them burn. 

“All done,” he assures me. Tissue gone and into a cup.


THE FIFTH STAGE OF GRIEF
Published in Medium's Human Parts

I replaced the copy of A People’s History of the United States I lent you that never came back. I stopped maniacally repeating the list of what was found in your body that morning, as if memorizing it would let me take something out. I stopped waking in the middle of the night with concrete understandings of what happened, figured out in dreams. I stopped beating myself up for not remembering those answers in the morning. Answers that I know will never come.


INVISIBLE TERRAIN
Published in Medium's Human Parts 

You remember why it has gone on so long in this moment, but, for once, it doesn’t change what happened in that chair. Your love is a ticking time bomb now. Your love is something you left in another room. You want to love this familiar person, but the distance feels unchangeable now. You’re not sure you have another Christmas or silent car ride in you.