Letters spilled over the floor. Dozens of them, written on the same yellowed paper as the one I held in my hand. I scooped them back into the box and took it with me when I left.
Few people know me, but I know many people. That's a skill that comes from living in the shadows and gaining knowledge through observation. It sounds bad, I know, but I didn't have a lot of options.
This isn't right. None of it. I can't say why, but it's all so wrong.
The third part in my series of short shorts about loving but not needing coffee.
A poem about finding a place in the world.
Coffee is only sometimes kryptonite.
Reimagining an older poem of mine.
This is a short short story about a young girl who runs away from her abuser.
This is a story about a woman who encounters what she thinks is a spider.
It's exactly how it sounds.