growing up

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

My stomach turns at the touch of his rough hands, and I vomit on his bare feet.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Years from now, it’ll still be growing fast and long, the way it grows in summer even when there’s been no rain.

I’ve decided that I no longer want to depend on an exchange of cultural consumption or “comparing lives” currency in order to feel good about myself.

She got too high while watching The Bachelor and had a misanthropic breakdown.

I sent out Christmas cards this year, which I wrote upon with an actual pen. But it wasn’t always like this.

The turkey was rubbery. The mac ‘n cheese was cold. But somehow the meal was delightful.