I remember the back of my uncle’s head. The smell of the cigarette he smokes, wafting through the window. His red neck in the driver’s seat my knees brushed up against the back. Going somewhere, as a family.
I am starting to make promises to God and placing strange things that I find upon the floor into my mouth. A thumbtack, a button, a piece of yarn. I wish on them, and roll them all about beneath my tongue.
Where would I put my anger, if I had a place big enough for it?
All this rage, it seems to need its own room. Its own house. On some days, I can fit it in a handbag. On others, it swells into a thing too big for me to stow away. All this little girl anger. All this madness.
When I was young, I would eat paper. I’d tear the…
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