There is nothing more to be said
My sister always told me that it took years for me to hit an age where my
rage was finally a redeemable quality. She said fourteen, maybe fifteen.
That was when she could look once instead of twice, spotting something
beyond a howl cupped into a palm. Instead of a lineup of faceless years
gazing back under smudges of warpaint. Personality doesn’t come full circle
until ten identical houses are burnt to the ground. I think about ages
four, five. Enough of my skin scorched in those days but no one ever saw smoke.
Parts of my ash show up in an essay and I’m still burning, I think.
Rachel Small is a writer based outside of Ottawa and is exactly one half of Splintered Disorder Press. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in magazines including Anti-Heroin Chic, Thorn Literary Magazine, the winnow magazine, and other places.