etcetera, etcetera

the needle is the size of my favorite stuffed rabbit and runs through a length of clear plastic tube into a retractable syringe. a loosened roll of sterile gauze curls delicately against the metal surgical tray, bottles of iodine uncapped and ready. i watch my doctor choose a swatch of gauze as he fixed me with a stare that could cut diamonds.  “what’re you always looking back here for? i'm gonna stick this in the wrong lung if you don’t sit still.” i shrug .  "i dunno. just nervous, i  guess. you said it was gonna hurt.” he nods, motioning me into place.  "i did say that, didn’t i?” “yeah.” “honesty is important to me. i’m not going to lie to you just because you’re a kid.” the pressure in my chest pushes the words to the back of my throat. “but last week you told me that the nurses stay up late eating ice cream and they put us to bed early because they don’t want to share,” i remind him, gripping the table in splayed palms. dr. colucci rubs circles on my lower back wi

once upon a time, my grandmother picked me up from school in a freshly washed white car, ready to try on homecoming dresses. before alzheimer's disease and covid-19, there were passenger seat drives with her at the wheel and days spent running errands. sweet curtains of tulle and lace; strappy heels and a slip to match, pearl earrings and pit stops for pizza and ice cream. we take our seats by the window and it's nanny across the table, so the words fall effortlessly from my lips. before there was jake scott and his heart songs, there was  the best day  by taylor swift and the two of us living it together. another year older and it's gone again, each day spinning into the next. years pass before my bleary eyes and i am losing track of the colors. five years to the day my brother barely graduates with his english degree, i vow to never send him a word of my writing. he's too sharp. too succinct. a master of words, cursed with the mind of hemingway and all too familiar wi

break me down. make me useful. excavate the heart until you hit passion; the soft, raw, bleeding center. wipe it clean as you extract it. don't let the mess of it scare you the way i did. wrap whatever is left in newspaper and toss it next to my eyebrows, tits, and sense of humor in a box marked ‘salvageable.’  crack my head open clean like a summer melon and scrape out the lost, twisted, wishful thoughts with a spoon. throw most of it in the trash. save my laugh in a music box and give it to my father, under care of my grandmother. i learned the soundtrack of life's joy from reading their lips. it would be selfish to bury their gifts. i want them to know that i remember who gave them to me. weave the hard won self-love into a crown studded with whatever confidence i had left. wear it yourself or give it away -- but let the hope behind it rest a minute. put it in a shadow box with the heart it spawned from, and give them a minute to remember each other. they've