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The cold is setting in. My bones are starting to gnaw away at me.

The emotional whiplash that’s carried throughout this year like a benevolent storm has left me feeling like a ship lost at sea. Always attempting to adjust my sails towards the mainland only to be met with more violent gusts of wind, knocking me off course, and steering me further and further into the jaws of my own shadow. It’s been difficult to recover from. It feels next to impossible to pinpoint where to begin, but I know I must figure it out, and soon. …


I put on my engagement rings for the first time in a year last night.

It took me awhile to find them. My squirrel-ish nature has had me playing hide and seek with myself when it came to where I’d put them, even while we were still together. After I called the engagement off, I couldn’t stand to really look at them — black diamonds and charcoal bands, suiting me perfectly — nor can I seem to dispose of them. They move with me from place to place, through season to season, collecting dust. Emotional baggage I can’t find it…


Today feels thinly veiled in an achingly heavy layer of nostalgia. The kind where I can vividly recall the smell of a childhood home I haven’t stepped foot in in over ten years belonging to someone whom I used to know; the kind where it seems like only yesterday I was a spry youth running rampantly alongside the vibrancy of more golden days, and now my bones creak like rotting support beams beneath the weight that comes with the melancholy of growing older.

The lake looks especially blue this morning against the soft amber of the trees. A crisp bite…


I am only eighteen and have not yet encompassed the loss of my innocence, the stain on my being in which I am no longer “child” or even “adult,” but rather an enigma of moral subjectivity and nausea. My Self is not my own, but of the men who created me through emotional decay and the fractures of chastity. I am not human; I am the secret caught in the back of their throats, the white glistening between the knuckles of their clenched fists, the valley of doubt begging for recognition. …


ON SHARING A HOME WITH GRIEF

I’m waiting in line to pay for my coffee. I shift my weight to my right leg, feeling the muscles tense and roll beneath my skin. I am uncomfortable in public spaces, but I am always attempting to find some semblance of comfort in uninterrupted discomfort. I look down to see dirt and grime have built up beneath my nails and I ask myself when the last time I cleaned them was. Bashfully, I pull my sleeves down to cover my shame. I wonder if the others in this room can hear how loud…

Howl Rae

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