Pizza Girl Gönderileri
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I just wanted to scour every inch of my body, the roughness of a loofah making me forget what it’d felt like when she put her hand against my back, how I wished for all five of her fingertips to become permanent islands on the fabric of my shirt.
I’m five ten in sneakers, I’m never actually small. But like when you’re in a people-packed space and there’s not a single face that looks at you for longer than a second—it’s not invisibility, it’s worse, they see you, they just have already decided in that second that there’s nothing about you that’s worth knowing, that kind of small.
The phone stopped ringing and I felt hurt, like they had heard my thoughts and nodded in agreement: Good idea, please stop existing.
I noticed she had three moles on the back of her neck, and I began writing haikus about them in my head.
“Just because I have blue hair doesn’t mean I’m going to be a bad mother.”
“Is it wrong if I rock the baby to sleep with rap music? Will that affect her SAT scores?”