Britney

2017 is ___ and ____ and ____ so far.

Any early claim is too violent.

Hindsight is 20/20—I adjust my cracked lenses and ready my arms in the dark.

“I don’t want to break your neck, I want to make you nervous” / “i sometimes feel as if you are one of the most melancholic human beings i’ve ever met” plump Happy New Year wishes.

The path leading from my prolonged self-vengeance is dwindling…the dirt is harder for my feet to grip…I sink into Something Else.

I wonder when I lost the ability to think out loud in full—to write in full sentences and pregnant paragraphs pleading for deliverance—to claim the writer birthright, to comfortably straddle strings of letters, to wear the loops of Os and Bs and Qs like wedding bands.

“No quiero más historias de miedo en mi casa.”
I don’t want anymore scary stories in my house.

2017: to turn terror on its head, to leave the victims’ pit, to eat the seven-headed dragon at the long dinner table. ♦