In our apartment, on a sticky August afternoon, I floated in the abyss that enveloped my brain after giving birth. It might have been two weeks since the delivery, but could’ve just as easily been six.
My body, which at the time I hated, waged a war against me. My darkened nipples bled a deep crimson, my field of vision blurred into a perpetual Rorschach test; and my back, hunched over with heavy breasts and guilt, froze in a concave coil, refusing to stand straight.
The landscape of my mind had been transformed by the fog of time. In the distance, wisps of the past teased my present. Not too long ago, hadn’t I
