Dear Wigleaf,

I am tired of being asked where I am from and how long I plan on staying here. Where am I from? I am from a wild land. I am from the haze of complication: grotesque and divine. I am from a humidity that weighs the body down until flesh and spirit become one animal. I am from the heat that leaves you wasted, the longing for other bodies, the nights that offer no relief. I am of the sweat that soaks the sheets—a terrain of salt lick skin and orange blossom honey—but none of this can be said at a party.

Sincerely yours,
Maria