“I can tell I love you because I want to give you a bite of whatever I’m eating.”
Merlin’s poetic prose is so visual in the writing that many parts reminded me of a graphic novel.
If the muffins had been good, we’d have eaten them and gone to bed. But the story of their catastrophic badness: that, we could forever savor.
The creative release felt familiar. The soreness, the tenderness, making up new words for a new reality.
We’ve listed the names we get called and the names we call ourselves. Some feel true. Others give us aches.
I spent a lot of time in my nook, tucked away and dreaming.
“I mean, the life of a child! What they see and what they hear, and what they choose not to discuss.”
How do you mourn someone who is still alive, who might as well be a stranger now?
I have forgotten how to speak two languages. But I have learned this one.