An Ode

I’ve found that writing about someone you share your life with is harder than writing about almost anything else. Maybe what makes it difficult to write about is the deep intimacy of everyday life, the inside jokes, shared pain, shared tears, shrieks of laughter together, stupid fights and serious ones, hundreds of hellos and goodbyes, weeks that seem endless and years that go faster than we know how to hold onto.

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Melissa HammackComment
Summer, Part I & II

Summer Part I

Where is crash and burn? angst of summer, pacing, obsessing, chattering, arms circling dogs to remain earth-bound, absent voices pounding eardrums, earth quaking into cranial fissures, reading to forget, forgetting what read, counting ticks till 4, randomly signaling heft of day passed, without tripping to ER or razoring in tub

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Reasons To Quit

Reasons to quit writing? There isn’t enough paper in this notebook to write them all down.

Twice last year, on two of my blog posts, comments were posted by my former husband. It’s not as if we’re in touch; it’s not as if we’re friends. Really, we never were. But he felt compelled to share his opinion on one post that did reference our marriage, though it spoke more to my inability to stay faithful, both to him and to Jesus, and the ultimate disappointment that followed.

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Sema WrayComment
A Prayer for Connection

I pray that for each single piece, drifting in isolation, each satellite, watching the activity in others’ lives and feeling apart, that some gravity, some love, pulls you into orbit.

I pray that the child alone finds a ball to kick, a card to flip, a book to read, a hand to hold that quiets the echo of the empty spaces.

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I Draw the Invisible Line

It’s been the past few months, a roller coaster. I wonder if there is something in the brain that changes and makes time pass more quickly as you get older?

It’s probably the same biological change that makes me wake up at odd hours. I listen to the faucet drip in January cold.

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Wash Tub Turtle

Las Vegas laundromat about two Miles off the strip on Spring Mountain road. Dig through pockets for quarters before throwing the clothes in with the suds. Sneak two PBRs in tinted bags and pull out a card deck. Look around at drab mothers with Nevada skin that sags like a frown.

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Hell is not Romantic

 **trigger warning: suicide, self harm**

It’s not because I am strong, that I can share those things. It’s because I am twisted and confused, and the monsters I am hiding are much more complex, and far less romantic, than the horrors I share with the world.

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Strength in the Cold

The car idled by the curb, exhaust from the back curling forward to block my view out the window. I rolled my wrists a few times to alleviate the soreness and shook out my fingers to bring warmth back into them. I flicked my eyes back to the window and caught a glimpse of a small group of people, huddled close together to keep warm.

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