Photo by Pierre Bamin on Unsplash
each prospect of time (cyclical, linear, parallel, frozen) made sense when I
cut my hair so you could cradle my skull and I started wearing glasses
like an adult. "We should paint again," you said, snapping a chocolate bar
in your hands. Last spring, you undressed me before an empty canvas. My
paintbrush yielded nothing but droopy question marks. Unruly shapes and
shadows (sequestered meaning dried under my fingernails) crept, piled,
enfolded into despair. My puerile trembling art. A vortex painted over.
About the Creator
Erin Shea
New Englander
Grad Student
Living with Lupus and POTS
Instagram: @somebookishrambles
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