It feels awkward, suspicious to be someone of few opinions.
Ever so slightly so that it barely matters
My Grandma has Dementia, but somehow that’s done nothing for my own memory.
A fully alive, fully outstretched black person taking up as much space as they need is the most frightening black person, so be scary.
Reflections from aged 22 on the eve of 23.
It is just a feeling. But why do I do that with feelings? Feelings are not always thoughts, not always stories. They’re felt, sometimes that is all.