A journal of narrative writing.
Letter to Shame

Listen to Letter to Shame read by Nicole Robinson

You staple sound to language. Even a compliment drowns in the haze of you, crawls in with good intentions, then is covered in stench, some Allegheny songbird left lingering in a landfill. You learn the chord of C to stay in the middle, to remind me who taught me to sing, taught me to tilt my head so many ways. At night you will not let me sleep, you hum the price of the lord’s prayer that I could never afford to believe. You think I love you, love the fog you cover me in, and I do. I can hide everyone inside you. Inside (humble) only you know I hate myself so beautifully. Remember how I started to pull you out of me? Holes appeared. Adults crawled out singing songs, and when children joined in the holes opened into trails. Remember the last time I led a hike with kids in Ohio? A little girl asked if we’d see elephants in the woods. When I said “no” she asked if we could go deeper in and find them.