jemnisimi

Leaving Mei. A few days ago I received a letter from my mother in her typical style: always short, always unsigned. I knew it was her by the practiced handwriting and the return address of 16 Han, up the road. We hadn't talked in months, so I knew guilt had gotten the better of her. Of course, my mother had always been the sort to graciously share her misery, so there was no great leap in logic to assuming the idea was to guilt me into coming home. This was our game. I'm dying. Bring packing paper, read her unmistakable, immaculate strokes on a rectangle of uncreased card stock. She was lying, of course. She had to be. But she knew I'd com

rubber, I could twist you a little bit. and you wouldn't break. (unless I twisted you harder.) I could have chosen to erase the details; but how could I be modest when I could just erase the whole picture. gone did go, the whole picture. and then like a miracle gone did go the anvil. gone did go the anvil gone did go the pain the sorrow gone did go the regret the hesitation gone did go gone did go left behind only shredded blackened scraps of you gone did go scraps of you gone did go when I was done I just carelessly swiped you away gone did go I started anew a new picture and the palm of my lef