Unredacted
The work that required
more honesty than comfort.
Deeper cuts. The pieces that couldn't live in the open. Paid subscriber access — because some things earn their keep by asking something back.
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Unfinished Agony
Some sentences don't end where the page says they should. The body keeps reading them anyway — at 3 AM, in the cold floor underfoot, in the chest that tightens before the mind knows why. This is the piece about carrying a thing upright long after you were promised you could set it down. Not the wound. The years after.
Read on Substack →Doxology, Pt. One
Thanksgiving as a covered dish nobody opens. A grandfather gone before the meal, and a family trying to patch the hole with construction paper and Elmer's glue. On grief that won't be trimmed into a happy shape, the river that keeps the names we've stopped saying, and the inheritance you don't get to refuse.
Read here →Son of a B*tch
The names we inherit. The ones we can't shake. The ones that turn out to fit better than we wanted them to.
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