Has something happened?


I think I survived.


Survival is stained glass. It changes all the time. Or, really, it’s more like a good double malt scotch. It sure is sweet drinking but it burns on the way down and leaves you wrecked in the morning. Or you don’t even remember it. I couldn’t stand that, not remembering. I’m glad I remember everything, even the--


Sometimes when I leaf through the hours from those months ago, I can’t see into the rooms. I don’t recognize my face. My nose is wrong, my eyes too wild, my hair is off color.


Maybe we’re supposed to leave things behind, especially painful things, but if I couldn’t remember, I think I would spend every minute like a tongue over a lost tooth, trying to make sense of the empty space. Emptiness has a presence, you know, it has weight to it.


When you tell a story, who deserves truth, and who deserves beauty?




I could sit here and tell you that it has been years like this, and I know I have been strangled and saved more times than I care to count, but when my words go through the garbage disposal that lies between my brain and my mouth I cannot promise that something isn't lost in rotation.


Truth is an empty room and everyone is yelling. Beauty is--


I survived.


Has something happened?

-Maya Sorini