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There are so many "nots" in my life: the person I meant to be once, or who I thought I would be by now. Who I should be for my father, my mother, all these conditional verbs mucking up the works here, clouding my mind with infinitives: to be.(more)
There are gears inside my chest, rusted from inactivity.

"That's easy," you say. "I have a little elbow grease right here."
(more)
Mornings at the farm were always the most beautiful time of day: the sun coming up behind the thick dogwood, turning the silo a shade of pink I had only seen on television. I spent my summers with my nose against the glass window of my room, daring myself(more)
Every morning it's the same. I wake up and think, "Today is the day." I can be anything I want. All the things I want to do are within reach of my body, my fingers within inches of everything I have inside me. The knowledge that I am the(more)
On the way to school, my feet skimmed the water covering the sidewalk like mosquitoes do, all light and air. I wasn't walking, though. I was on my bike, pedaling the 20 or so blocks west that was my regular route on Mondays, but this morning things were different.(more)
What if I could stay in this moment forever, this glass in front of me sweating all over the bar. What if I didn't have to follow that frenzy inside me that's so hard to contain. Can't stop at just one. I'll have another and another. The bartender starts(more)
I have one rule in the bedroom: no spiders. Anywhere else in the house is fine, but there's something about seeing their spindly legs hovering in a window well that is so close to my bed. The webs catch in the light, a filmy gauze. From across the room(more)
When the young make plans they mean it. It is easy to see a future when it feels far away from your own life. Far away and also close. The possibility infects every pore in your skin. Sometimes you wake up and you think you must be shaking, physically(more)
I grew up in the land of weather. Every spring seemed to alternate between large bodies of energy, stronger than me, barreling their way through our town. Before the flood, there were tornadoes. The sirens usually went off in the late afternoon, eerie in their inflection. They were as(more)
If only I could go back to that day when I ran my hardest, the finish line ever in sight, my legs pumping hard like the tiny machines I always dreamed they could be. But then too soon there was the asphalt coming in fast, too fast. My legs(more)
When my grandfather died I flew home on a red eye. "Just get here," my mother had said on the phone. I packed slowly, willing the calendar to jump ahead to the next week. I didn't particularly like my grandfather but that's not something you bring up at a(more)
My mother boiled eggs only in summer. From the living room I'd watch the kitchen window fog over with steam. My mother's sweat dripping into the pot. We didn't have air conditioning so by the end of it she'd look like she just stepped out of the shower: a(more)
When I was young I had two selves: the one inside and the one everyone else saw. To live in a small town is to know everyone's business. At church my favorite part was communion because you got to look at everyone. All of that piety driven forward in(more)
I've been thinking about death a lot lately. So many strong women close to me in physical space being brought down by illness. You see them one day and the next you hear they are in the hospital. Women I don't know well but are used to seeing on(more)
The morning my dog fell in the hole, I wasn't home. For weeks I had watched the hole with caution. "Exploratory camera," my landlord had told me. There was something wrong with our sewer line. When the men came they dug up the yard easily, like kids at the(more)