It was the same every day. To the train. To work. Back again. To the train. To work. Back again. In her seat, pulled from her book by the memory of a shell on an outstretched palm, she gazed out the window at the tunnel rushing past, hoping to catch a glimpse of who she was, who she wanted to be, who she lost.
Mistake
January 14, 2009The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog, who turned out only to be resting, and that was the last mistake the fox ever made.
Available in handwriting on Flickr.
Ill-fitting
January 12, 2009Absolutely nothing fit—her clothes bound her in the wrong places, the people she spent time with cut her without knowing what they did. That entire weekend, edges sliced flesh, voices barbed, and even the air scoured her upturned face.
Hips into it
January 10, 2009“You got to get your hips into it, girl,” he said, and she pretended like she had no idea what he was talking about. He got more insistent, and she pretended harder than she had a few measures before, and eventually, they reached an impasse that sent her scurrying for her drink where she’d left it on the bar.
They left the club separately, just like she’d planned.
Wanted to be
January 8, 2009The dress slid up, snakelike, over her body. He had watched this for years but had never tired of it. He had asked for a miracle, and there she was, all she had ever wanted to be.
Illegible
January 6, 2009At altitude, the ink cartridge exploded, marking my hands with signs I was trying to write. Words stuck to my fingers, illegible, but those who knew me well could read what they said: Heartbroken. Lonely. River. Missing.
Wick-lighting
January 2, 2009The day did not dawn, just lightened from murky to gloom as the sun made an unseen arc. It was the kind of day that required candles from just after waking, bright-dancing sentries against the fog outside. Inside my apartment, I moved from room to room in silence, muffled by weather, lighting wicks as I went.
100 Proof 