i used to pray before i ate but i don’t anymore. i used to brush my teeth before i slept but i forget more and more, i fell into this woman’s body before my mother had a chance to tuck me into bed. i am in here, i do not know whose face belongs to whom. adulthood means you keep your dying to yourself. i turn 26 when i am holding my little sister in a closet as my parents raise kitchen knives, i turn each meal i don’t eat into a moment of silence for the girl in the airport who has no one to meet her at arrivals except the version of her that was left there, 11 years old and sitting on her suitcase outside the revolving door, waiting for a mommy to come take her home.
A place for stories about chronic illness, disability, mental health, and neurodivergence.
