I don’t want to paint. I don’t want to dance. I don’t want to sit in a bath pretending the sweaty stillness will save me. Everything feels wrong tonight. My art waits for me like an accusation. Canvases calling. Brushes clean. I have no excuse, Except that I am empty in a way my own creative hands can't touch. I want someone here. I want a body in the room. I want weight on the other side of the bed. But the people who want me aren't healed. And the people I want, disappear.

Every day I wake up Already on her back Strapped in the saddle Feet off the ground, Hands on reins along for the ride She runs to every...

I was 9 years old when it started. My body issues. Nine. I remember looking in the mirror wearing this red t-shirt with geometric...