It is an immeasurable shame to have been branded with something so public, from which you cannot escape.
I wake to a pounding at my bedroom door and my father’s booming voice: "Tell that mother fucker if he wants to show his face around here
One time, not recently but a few months ago, I watched my boyfriend close and lock the door to our apartment. After walking two and a half blocks away from our place, I felt the deep compulsion to go back and check that the door was locked. I fought the
“I think we need to talk.”
No good has ever, in the history of spoken language, come from those words. He is standing across the room from me, near the doorway. He has me in plain sight, the only point of egress covered. Still, he feels
The first time he hit me was in February. In my mind he was a model boyfriend for a very long time before things got bad, which is why I continued to date him: because he had proved for many months how good he was and the instances
“You don't know me but I wrote a novel about you.”
These are the words I shared with him, with a bucket of colorful flowers in my cold hands, two weeks after his funeral.
If you can bear with me, let me share my story.
I was 16, depressed and in the clutches
Everyone is pregnant but me. That sentence repeats ad nauseum in my head throughout the course of most days. Of course, these thoughts are all the more prevalent now that four - four! - women in my workplace have announced their pregnancies one right after the other. They chatter and