Precious Wigleaf,

Does your heart bleed for kittens abandoned in a patch of grass? Do you like saying that your heart bleeds for kittens when you know for a fact you'd be dead if that were the case? Does a figure of speech make up for the failure to feel? And how do you feel about pudding?

Have you ever had a dream composed entirely of hashtags? I can see you getting into that and swearing it's fiction.

No one knows how to address rising levels of ambient stress in American schools. And I don't know how to tell him that I love him in the kitchen after buying a ticket to Barcelona and leaving him in the dream that isn't a nightmare.

What feels good: the soft kiss I leave on each fingertip before letting go.

Birds will be birds, I tell my kids. Then bury the tibia.

I can't separate this first dream from the nightmare in which he got caught in a broom closet humping a full-figured waitress as the billboards kept screaming Baby Got Back—or was that me? Was that me playing girl that night we Kardashianed ourselves into trending Keto-me-craze-balls?

The strobed night and bad-sex horizon of shaved machine bodies. The bubbles we blew. The bones I keep hiding from kiddos.

So what if my heart is a hashtag? The sky is a movie no one watches in the name of a screen.

Love,
Your Kindred Spirit from Anne of Green Gables




- - -

Read AS's story.

W i g l e a f                10-12-18                                [home]