A journal of narrative writing.
Self Portrait as the Oldest Daughter

The hiss of pinking shears as I strip the seam and ruin my dress. I open the envelope of her baby hair and swallow it down till I choke on my own empty throat. I string her baby teeth on wire, drape them around my neck. The iris—her birth flower—lists in the glass beside my bed, with too many lush and furious tongues.