A very acceptable ratio of trash to treasure.

  • Gathering comfort.

    What foods would you like to make?

    I’d like to be in my own kitchen where spices line the shelves in mismatched vessels that remind me of apothecary jars. Butter would shimmer in the pan as I tossed in sweet onion and garlic, the scent wafting into the air — rich and enticing.

    Outside, the garden is just beginning to bear fruit. I would step out onto the soft soil and gather ripe tomatoes, sprigs of thyme and rosemary – maybe a yellow zucchini. My hens might gift me an egg or two, still warm in the nesting box.

    The simple ingredients would come together slowly – intertwining into a dish that tastes like comfort.

  • The spine of the book

    Which activities make you lose track of time?

    The smell of the pages is
    musty, but not unpleasant,
    almost like fruit
    on the edge of decay –
    sweet enough
    to draw me deeper.

    The words paint a world
    that I can step into –
    slipping between the lines of text,
    where minutes
    dissolve into hours
    and monsters breathe.

    I am a phantom in this place,
    beyond the sharp scent of blood,
    a shadow that traces the edges
    of the hero’s journey.

    While somewhere,
    in the real world,
    the sun has begun to set.

  • Distilled

    What do you think gets better with age?

    Age distills.
    The noise
    fades like vapor –
    opinions,
    attachments.

    The years
    strip you bare,
    and reveal
    what you’ve
    always been –

    Man
    or monster.

  • Burnout

    What time do you go to bed and wake up currently?

    Sleep begins to tug at my eyelids and I yawn, glancing at the clock – 9pm.

    Just a few more hours of staring into the glowing screen for my daily dose of doom scrolling before I can go to sleep. Apparently I need a reminder about how fucked we are before I officially pass out.

    Tomorrow, I’ll wake up around 7am and stare at the ceiling for a bit before the need for coffee gives me a reason to get up and participate in society.

  • The devil we know.

    What strategies do you use to increase comfort in your daily life?

    I used to confuse comfort and safety; sometimes they feel like sisters. But one can be cruel while the other is always kind … even when that kindness stings.

    Safety is a locked door. Survival. Sometimes it burns, like medicine on your tongue – painful but necessary. And sometimes it feels warm, close enough to comfort that it’s easy to mistake one for the other.

    Comfort is trickier. It can be tenderly corrosive. It consumes you gently, like a beast that anesthetizes its prey with venom. It isn’t kind – just soothing, so you close your eyes.

    I’ve become very wary of comfort.

    I try not to let it lull me into a false sense of security. I’m learning to recognize the difference between softness and sedation.

    But that doesn’t really answer your question, does it?

  • Remains

    I don’t like to remember the day you died, but it’s something that haunts my mind sometimes – when things are quiet and the ghosts stir. And even when I’m not thinking about it, it feels like it has somehow settled into the space between my molecules – an ache I can’t name, shaping my reactions even now.

    I was so small when you died. The memories come as foggy fragments, waves of shapeless feeling that crash against the edges of me until I give way to the erosion.

    I remember my mother pulling my hand as we ran across the gravel to the dam. She was sobbing. My feet were bare, and I could feel the little rocks digging into my skin like vicious biting insects.

    I didn’t know where we were going, or why I was hurting. And the memory breaks savagely here. I don’t know if I saw your body – maybe I did, and my mind is doing its best to protect me … shielding me from your pale wet skin and my mother’s weeping.

    The day of your wake mom told me we were going to get you, and I felt relief wash over me. I hadn’t understood where you had gone – just that the house felt emptier somehow, and your Lego went untouched … but that didn’t matter, because you were coming home.

    The lighting in the funeral home felt stark and yet somehow shadowy – as if the lingering dark might hide the lifelessness of your face. You lay in a box, surrounded by soft cushion, eerily asleep.

    I was in someone’s arms – Mom? Maybe one of my older sisters? Whoever it was asked me to give you a kiss, but I couldn’t. You weren’t coming home, whatever was in the box wasn’t you – it was some awful nothing wearing your skin. I remember breaking down, trying to claw my way out of the snare of their grip… and then nothing.

    Just nothing.

  • Strawberries

    The little strawberries that grow by the stream taste like sunshine, sweet and warm on my tongue. The red stains my lips and I pretend it’s lipstick, fussing over my reflection in the water.

    I study my image for a moment, frowning thoughtfully. The girl looking back at me from the silvery ripples is barely fifteen  with a head full of curls and eyes just a little too dark for her years.

    I notice another face appear beside mine and I flinch in surprise. Her reflection is dappled with gold as the sun dances on the water’s surface – dirty blonde perfection with a soft, Cupid’s bow mouth.

    I thought I was alone.

    Rachel reaches a hand into the water and splashes me with a laugh that sounds almost bell-like, pretty and teasing. I try to memorize the sound as I wipe the water from my cheek, flashing her a grin.

    “Nice lipstick,” she says with a smile, and I can feel my cheeks burning as she leans forward to wipe away the blush of berry from my bottom lip.

    “I thought I looked pretty badass,” I say, trying for a devil-may-care tone but sounding more like a kid playing pretend.

    Another giggle escapes her, and I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears.

    “Oh, you do,” she nods almost solemnly, her eyes sparkling with something playful. “I could show you how to do your makeup sometime, you know … if you want.”

    “Sure,” I say with a shrug, my voice a little softer than I intended.

    Rachel smiles again and moves closer, pushing a wayward curl behind my ear – and I can feel my chest tighten.

    “Tomorrow after school?” she asks, tipping her head a little to the side and pursing her lips softly.

    I catch myself looking at her mouth, wondering if her kiss would taste as sweet as strawberries, warm like sunshine. My stomach flutters and I bite my bottom lip a little too hard, reminding myself that I shouldn’t think that way.

    I swallow.

    “Tomorrow,” I agree, looking away before she sees too much.

  • The unravelling kind.

    What is your favorite genre of music?

    I love the music that finds the loose threads of you and pulls until you begin to unravel. The kind that slips under your skin and winds itself into your soul, until it’s a part of you.

    For me, it’s songs that seethe against oppression, that lend breath to mourning.

    Soft.
    Wailing.

    Tearing the things I want to say from my chest, and laying them bare on the floor.

  • Hellebore

    I linger between
    the ache of sorrow
    and the numb paralysis
    of mourning.

    The ghosts here slither —
    caught like a whimper
    where breath and grief
    hold each other,
    quiet and familiar —
    yet somehow strangers
    in a melancholy
    embrace.

    A susurrus of life
    and the allure of decay —
    slowly unravelling,
    hellebore
    weaving its roots
    into my skull.

    Profane,
    and still —
    the brokenness
    almost feels holy.

    Like a helpless sob
    in the breathless dark,
    that doesn’t sound like me
    at all.

  • The Space Between

    On what subject(s) are you an authority?

    My kingdom is the space between
    the break and the blood,
    where the air tastes
    of copper and ash –

    and the shadows lie long
    on the soil.