“What does it mean when your body is your art? Can a thicker brush not make just as beautiful strokes?”
I hope the voices of people who haven’t necessarily had the words when they needed them can also be heard.
On the day when two pink lines stared up at me, I wondered which set of events I had set in motion. A baby? Or not a baby?
My bad teeth are slowly shrinking my world. They are not of my body; they haunt my body.
My changing body made me the object of stares and comments from men far older than my father.
Here is how the story of your new face begins.
“Culture should change as people do because people should define culture.”
At fifty yards, I wave like I see someone I know. Ten feet away, I flash my pepper spray.
On Election Night, I thought again of the boy who assaulted me. When had I finally stopped blaming myself?