by Abigail Hillrich-Dawdy
The mold on the tile in my bathroom spreads and, though it disgusts me, I do not wipe it clean. I have
scrubbed every inch of my body in the hopes that the new skin grows without flaw. I cannot yet name what is
wrong with me so I make a list that wraps the length of all my limbs twice over. I am lost in my own name. It
revolts me. These are the things about me I’d rather you not know. I am ashamed of my own
apathy. I reply with silence at times I should be screaming. I beg for grace I do not deserve. I have pieced together
every combination of all the word in the English language and yet it betrays me still.
