the writer

You don’t know why you dream about the writer. Seems like probably just because you fell asleep reading My Struggle. But there’s a lot going on in the dream, and it feels significant in the way that some dreams do. Not in their storylines, perhaps, nor their imagery, their host of characters. But rather in waking up […]

the weeping willow

As an adult, all of the memories she has about him fall under one simple category: Sad Lessons on Life & Love. Still, as a child, there was Daddy. Bringing her presents and leaving her notes in his left-handed scrawl, each one confirming how absolutely wonderful she was. Feeding her on his oration and tucking her in […]

The Westons, part I

Around the age of 13 I was sent off to live with the Westons, the result of Mum deciding I was too much to handle. Which isn’t a slight to Mum. I actually was. Like, even for myself. I’d taken to hanging around with a strange group of friends. Strange in that they were kids, […]

absentee demons

I’m having another episode. I’m never sure what to do when this happens, and at first I tend to respond by thrashing wildly. Grasping at nearby surfaces as I plummet, only to watch them loosen and break too. Far better once I recognize the hopelessness of struggle, as at least I can leave off bringing […]

dressing down

He says some of the most ridiculous things I’ve never heard. Like when I show up in the low, black corset, a willful adaptation of the woman my mother wanted me to be. And I get, “Oh my god. Who is the retarded nanny that dresses you?” Maybe I’m supposed to be offended. But it’s far too funny […]

when your mind is wild and your body is still

Caleb and you spend long afternoons in your bedroom waiting for spring. He sleeps with his strong arm thrown over you and you yourself never sleep but steady your breathing enough to convince him that you do. Without knowing why, you like this foolery, this deception. It makes you happy. You try to keep this […]

the currents that run through me

mostly because it’s so cold out, and the only color is grey, and i don’t want to be here. “c’mon, woman. time to get up,” he says, gently spanking me. the subsequent sounds as pulls on his pants, zips up his fly, fastens his belt. i’m curled around my own torso, snuggled too deep beneath. […]