You tried to make a point about me, but you intentionally wrote about my mother.
There is a box wrapped in shiny, purple paper, topped with a blue, glittery bow
I talked about you tonight.
Hate is a complex thing: internal and external.
Some thoughts on Pulse Orlando.
I could write essays upon essays about the pain and childish longing I’ve learned to bury—were you one of the unfortunate few in my creative nonfiction undergrad classes, you’ve probably be subjected to my mommy (and daddy) issues more than a few times.
That’s not what this is.