Identity is a vessel to fill, we the chalice makers and liquid artisans, the inventors, hosts, and cupbearers, serving ourselves and our guests the flavor and finish of our secret recipes in spacious galleries of the mind, a white orchid petal floating on a sanguine sea of blood red wine.
It took years to dislodge the hate searing my brain and every limb, like a tree burning in a firestorm. I’m charred but still standing, waiting for the rains of spring.
I chose the third wave of the set, gliding over water so aqua cool that every cut, bruise, and scar along the way faded into something I never was but am forever becoming. That night, gazing at the sea, I dribbled blood red wine down my shirt. It glowed like a birthmark in the fading
Between the Fishermen and the Shore Read More »
What a clean arching curve I made when I leapt from the deep green sea and cast myself into your glittering net. Gently, you pulled me from your web, studied my scales, and said, “Oh, Mr. Fish, you’re splendid! But I’m afraid you’d never do. You see, I’m waiting for the perfect catch.” Then you
The mind can only do so much, and it’s often full of tricks; it orders you to fear the worst though something needs to happen first. It warns you not to be in love or share your honest thoughts, despite the fact that time is short and love might be your last resort. It talks
The mind can only do so much Read More »
I wanted to return to some imaginary life based on a collection of unstable memories I thought were real. I would gaze fondly on those memories and dwell in their hazy light, hoping they would do more than flicker in and out of my thoughts like quiet visitors shapeshifting from one identity to another, never