Saturday, December 3
I'VE ALWAYS BEEN THE GIRL IN THE WRONG clothes for spring, yet I understand that my body is a gift. I've not withered away. When my mother slaps my thighs to circulate the water in the blood, the bruises still purple. I let blood work itself small again. I want to dig deep enough to know I'm not the only one suffering. Last week I hunted the blond boys who hunted a doe in mist. We all saw the mother gnawed to bone in upturned soil. I let out a dry cry. Only the worms could hear me. I've been that low. (Carly Joy Miller)