It's complicated, like origami,
the folds in our relationship.
My mother is talking about me, but really, she is talking
about herself. Yet her wounds are my wounds;
at least, something in me hurts.
the folds in our relationship.
about herself. Yet her wounds are my wounds;
at least, something in me hurts.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH LETTER
OF THE ALPHABET
OF THE ALPHABET
A daughter’s struggle to face the Medusa of generational trauma without turning to stone—an intimate portrait of the chaos and confusion of a mother's mental illness—and a deep meditation on storytelling itself, written in the form of a glossary.
