Regimen I cut my finger making dinner, and the jagged edge of skin I’d left to heal and harden wound new red paths across my cheek as I dreamed of the rising sun, a hornet’s nest. I am becoming a weapon unto myself. Hot water is forgiving to tougher skins, like candlelight when the dark won’t do. In the beginning I would soak before you came to me. You’d say, “How warm you are. How sweet to touch.” And I let you.
-Published in the Fight Issue of A Women’s Thing.