16.12.05 - 2:07 p.m.

fingertips pressed hard into the flesh at my waist. a protective mother's hand wrapped around her child's arm. the gestures of someone who's shared your bed. not like that. a brother or a cousin at christmas. the roommate who used to leave food in the bathroom because he'd realize he had to pee on his way from the kitchen. a little hissy whisper in my ear: where are you? and why aren't you eating? accusatory, but gentle. like a mother. not mine, but somebody's.

i'm alright said the man to his wife
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the project museum

the revolution will be catalogued

this american life

the library of congress

i used to believe







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