Essays, nonfiction, and short fiction.
For Paul
I don't know where to begin.
The quiet hatred I carry for my fiancé is liquid cement permeating my stomach and intestines, hardening and softening, as he gently smiles and asks me how I'm feeling. My pregnancy was a source of passive aggressive fat jokes, culminating in him telling me I was chubby while he hasn't lost an ounce of the 60lbs he said he would two years ago.
Amanecer
Sentimentality and a predilection towards mysticism is common with the women of my family. In my teens my aunt took me to her bruha, a short dark haired woman who could tell my fortune by charting the arrangement of stars on the day I was born. It felt silly, but Tia was in earnest. It was her way of ensuring I was prepared for what lay ahead.
Yes All Women
My sense of self has been tempered by the men in my life, each carrying a personal hurt so deep my love couldn’t reach them. Whether it was failed dreams or lack of gumption it fell upon me like hot bile. Suddenly what they failed to see in themselves I suffered in tandem. I wasn’t allowed to exceed their limitations and my affection for them was supposed to be inexhaustible.
Limbo
Summer is brief and oppressive. The ceiling of my barracks room gives the illusion of ventilation with pronounced plastic slits grouped together next to a larger unit, drab gray and ineffective. I have a box fan propped against the screen pointed inward toward my bed, a gentle hum that rolls my green blackout curtains. People around me are convinced winter will be especially harsh this year, but I’m impatient.
The Root of the Matter
The day I graduated from Saint Edward's University was dolorous: I wanted to wear jeans, but was hastily zipped into a modest black dress and matching heels, half-size too big. I wanted to go to my favorite diner on the East Side, but took three steps inside before I was reproached for not making reservations somewhere expensive. The missing tiled bar and barefoot children stopped them at the door.