Quick’ I think to myself. ‘If you write something as uncomfortable as you did yesterday you must make up for it with something nice. Maybe write about the flowers you witnesses scattered on the streets of Napoli Italy, or the red threads of the new sweater that frame your collarbones. No one wants to read your hurt.’

So I begin lying. I press my forced optimism into my words until rage finds its way through.

I don’t know how people grieve their loss of security- the loss of their bodies belonging to them.

I don’t know how many women feel this small.

I don’t know how long it will take before pretty words will come out of me again.

I don’t know

I don’t know

For now, I’ll forget pretty and stick with truth.


Art by Nicola Kloosterman


One thought on “Truth

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