Confidence in the Flesh
The right idea about me is that I am a confident, empowered female person who rejoices in her sexuality.
The right idea about me is that I am a confident, empowered female person who rejoices in her sexuality.
When I was eleven, the barn cat we kept outside to catch mice had kittens.
I wonder, though, if we haven’t forgotten what vulnerability actually means: exposure to harm, physical or emotional. I wonder if we’ve glorified vulnerability.
My real fear is not that someone will think that I write poorly, but that people will think I write without having anything to say.
Or maybe, there’s liberation to being in limbo—for a brief time, I’m nowhere. I’m placeless. I’m just part of the mass of humanity that’s moving from one space to another and back again.
Once I met Lucy face to face, we knew each other, and I sang to her songs from a place that had been growing inside me, one of confidence and purpose.
We stood on an extension of a natural butte, but under the topsoil was a thousand feet of trash.
The winged six-legged something-or-other was diligently scaling the coffee shop window, which was thick with the moist mess of condensation.
So fall softly as you go into your places, like snow onto empty branches, like a weighted blanket.
In my imagination, heaven was an infinite, celestial hay maze.