tenth letter
I promise I want to talk about writing. But I also want you to know it gives me peace to be able to count on how quickly things change. How they never turn out quite as I need or expect–even simple things, like coming home. I feel like I’m always on the precipice of having exactly what I need
seventh letter
In my life, I have these moments where my instinct to run and escape is so equal to its futility, I’m not quite sure what to call it. Like if fight-or-flight had a violentlysurrender™ option. Sometimes, the feeling gets so bad, it collapses in on itself and I go into a state of shock. Something like a panic attack, but worse.
First letter
I’m thirty years old as of April this year. I was supposed to be dead by now.