I don’t.

I don’t feel like writing about the horror of my kitchen sink, because the horror of life in America is too strong right now.

I don’t feel like telling you about online dating and heartaches and my sometimes really deep loneliness because I’m not shot in my bed.

I don’t feel like crafting some clever narrative of how funny it is to be around kids who are so damn smart because my babies and I have an obscene amount of financial priviledge and I don’t get shot and left on the street for six hours like road kill.

I don’t want to tell you how often I wonder where the right-to-lifers are when it comes to human beings, grown ones. What if the angry white texans/floridians/arkansas-ians flooded the streets in Minneapolis (Detroit, Newark, Houston, Baltimore), demanding the guns of the police? Demanding new judges who will see things their way? Demanding change at the highest levels of government because goddamnit, everyone has a right to live and killing people is one of those pesky commandments?

I don’t want to talk to you about my fucking houseplants.

black mother putting jeans on shouting baby
Photo by William Fortunato on

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