Shout Out To All The Hairy Girls And By Hairy Girls I Dont Mean Those White Hairy-on-purpose-to-make-a-statement-while-still-being-viewed-as-traditionally-feminine

Shout out to all the hairy girls and by hairy girls I don’t mean those white hairy-on-purpose-to-make-a-statement-while-still-being-viewed-as-traditionally-feminine girls I mean the brown girls, black girls, jewish girls, trans girls, and the otherwise these-are-my-genetics-and-i-am-worthwhile-and-important-as-shit-regardless-of-what-I-do-to-my-body girls

how do parrots talk that’s so scary

I am slightly uncool online, but I fully assure you, I am worse in person

We are being murdered

on thirteen july 2016 Deeniquia Dodds Died she was shot and abandoned On Independence Day seven miles from me. she is the third of us to die so close to me the end is inching so implacably  forwards Zella Ziona, 15 October 2015 murdered Keyonna Blakeney, 16 April 2016 murdered Deeniquia Dodds, 13 July 2016 murdered martyrs all

my commitment to catch and release currently sorely tested by the two dozen baby spiders I’m finding per diem crawling around the ceiling light casting tiny skittering shadows, stretching elaborate silk bridgeworks like it’s a fucking ewok village up there

it’s cutting up peaches to scoop into your cereal bowl, only to remember suddenly, viscerally, without warning, your dad doing the same thing on a Sunday morning in the summer, the only time we all ate cereal instead of oatmeal, and always with fruit

it’s standing at the counter making dinner, peeling an apple with your hands and remembering teaching your little brother how to do this correctly with part of your mind, learning how to cut the core out from your mom with the rest

it’s making eggs by boiling the water then turning the heat off for twenty minutes, not twelve, mom, I know that’s how you do it but there are two eggs and I know what works, and I’m not saving the water for later either, it’s weird that you guys do that

it’s being here, in the silence, listening with your memory to voices yelling across the house, the dehydrator running in the background and your dad’s making sure you dip the fruit in Vitamin C before putting it in, the timer going off because it’s time to stir the soup hey help me cut up these carrots you don’t remember which parent showed you how to use a knife but they both trust you with one, hey remember that time I cut my finger on a blunt knife slicing potatoes can’t you buy a new knife for camping at least, you’re ten years old standing over the stove making enough scrambled eggs to feed an army and you managed this time to be patient and not to stir them until the clear part turned white like your mom showed you, the egg whites are ready to add to the waffle batter you can hear the sound of the mixer change when they go stiff, wait for the bubbles and don’t jump the gun on flipping pancakes, checking cranberries for the sauce and giggling when they squished and squirted juice everywhere, go pick out what frozen fruit you want from the freezer, hey hand me that cookbook was it a half cup or a quarter you used too much baking soda oh well–

it’s traveling through kitchens in your memory, it’s bickering with people that aren’t there because the argument’s so old you rehash it even to yourself, it’s love, it’s food, it’s lessons, it’s love, it’s teaching each other, it’s feeding each other, it’s warm kitchens and midnight snacks because you and your brother both got hungry at 2 am, it’s weird food that you ate for weird reasons like cheese on rotini pasta and and canned soup and you’re sick of broccoli please at least put some salt on it, it’s waking up to bacon and eating it even though you don’t like bacon, it’s love, it’s love.