Yesterday was three years ago, passing broken bodies of deer on the sides of every road. Their white bellies, slender, bent necks. I thought of her. Every black-eyed doe was the crack of her forehead on the steering wheel. Every dun-colored body was the bruises they say marked her face, kisses from impact. Passing their […]
Memoirs are my Mount Everest.
Don’t take this too seriously.
I’ve been overthinking my writing lately–I mean, A LOT–so this piece is important, a reminder that writing doesn’t have to be planned to be purposeful.
What I’ve been up to, where I’m headed–an overview.
I think this means I’m an author…
I don’t claim to be a poet, but I find this amusing nonetheless. This is as romantic as I get.