http://slow.writerscafe.org/wordscanbeenough The original writings of author anne en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776036327 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 In the morning it is never the same -the way the light falls and turns to what is missing, sometimes misses, sometimes finds. The streak of yellow almost blinds my morning eyes, still adjusting to the place that knows you not. Every day I dream up new ways to only love that which makes me kinder... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1942094/ By now, I thought the world remembered me, thought I had left something big enough to be recognized for. But sometimes at night, when the world is almost tender, a silent blue, and the past is a faraway hand waving from a car I can no longer recall, it engulfs me -I have been practicing absenc.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1939462/ I. I am in the kitchenstuffing old tomatoes down the drain  knowing you will come in soonand tell me to stop being ridiculous. That you can never, ever reallyget rid of the thingsyou are trying to get rid of. II. Today, my breakfast consists of apologiesand a self help.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1779297/ and she smiledand her smile smiledand her voice sounded likesomething almost holywhen she said she loved me, too. There is somethingI cannot forgive myself for. There is somethingyou should know about my mother. See, my mother had hoped for a body that does not know.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1773145/ My father grew up in a place where it did not rain. I never understood this. I never understood how people could live peacefully in a place where clouds are sewn up with thick threads and dull promises. On a certain Saturday night I decided to bring it up in between dinner thank yous .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1765710/ Father gave, gave, gaveand mother broke everything in halflike dishes, like love. Like the house in which they grew your body, watered it like a starving plant. By the time you had finally outgrown them,they could no longer fool you with storiesabout the moon as a portraitin th.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1750002/ I didn’t cry at my father’s funeral, but I cried at my own, seven years ago, when the coffin was made out of skin and wore my name like a price tag that didn’t spell sacrifice. You know, sometimes I feel like a cheap version of myselfand .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1733966/ He sayslet me help strip this skin off,this wallpaper you’re wearing like a disease.Let me heal you hereand here and here.   He keeps calling it disease, keeps running his fingersover all the partsI grew up apologizing for, the parts my mother once calle.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1733318/ When grief begs you to stay in bed for the day, puts his claws on your thighs,whispers that you owe him in all this dark, say no. Say silence kills. Say you are drowningin something bigger than yourselfand you cannot afford the damage. When grief offers you a third glass of wine, a ride ho.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1719362/ Tonight you are livingin the ruins of other people’s dreams.Sometimes in your sleepyou can still hear the clappingof hands and teeth and bodies,two shadows saying you are theirs. And so it is.So you are.So you hand over your body,only this time it doesn’t shrink, .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1702951/ This body as a plate. This body as wonderingwhat’s left to serve tonight. Run out of thisand thisand this. If emptiness ever neededa definition, I would take its handsand lead it to the wellat the bottom of this body,ask it: What do you know about hunger,my .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1702016/ There were the days when you would call yourselfa heroand the days whenthe blood in your mouthwas mine. On certain Saturday nightsyou would sit me downand tell me about the angry dreams,how they ruinedthe quiet.Skin dripping intothose bitter, clenched fists,unaw.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1698807/ Silent girl, they weep,stop doing that to yourself.Silent girl, aren't you tiredof being silent?Aren't you tired of wearingthe dead body?The dead body.Body like a squeaking staircase.Body like a sacrifice. Body like sacrifice everythingthat ever meant anythingto you... http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1687352/ You told me you needed to escapeso I ran,but you never followed.They say there are some thingsyou cannot outrun.They say your body was one of them. You with your tough skin, your angry handsgrabbing bottles like door knobs.Your teeth out there like a trigger war.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/wordscanbeenough/1686568/