Nonfiction

As if she did not know exactly what slipped inside her own body. As if she did not know what stayed.

She saw the length of her own life, and she cut the planks accordingly.

The versions of them I used to know, my almost-friends, exist only in the archive of my faulty memory.

Christmas lights twinkle outside Grandma’s hospice window.

I want to ask him who had been his hero.

I am a collector of memories, tucking them into my pockets, behind my ears.

My body freezes each time I see your body fall, Tamir. Each time you fall, I want to be witness at your side.

I have a constant companion—that version of myself who always thought she would be a mother.

It’s almost like I was never there, even when my toes were inches away from touching the river water.

During my time in Florida, Waffle House's eggs started to disturb me.