Proverbial Patriarchy of Parochial School
I am frozen in the back pressing my fingertips hard against the orange plastic of the chair as I sit on my hands, the buzzing white lights overhead dress the…
Month: August 2019
The Story is written through my Mother’s hands
I once thought: my hands were my mother’s. Upon further inspection I realized my knuckles and the grasping toward more was my father’s. I once thought my smile was…
A New Chapter
I wonder where my head went. Off it fell rolling and bumping away in the dust that was once my home. I wonder where my thoughts have gone: they…
