Let me tell you a secret.
I don’t want to be a writer.
I have a reoccurring fantasy
in which I’m 12 and lying in a hospital bed, tubes stuck to my tiny breasts
faces made of broken glass smiling down at me
and telling me I’m going to be someone successful,
So let me be Sylvia, I plead,
or dear Margaret, they knew how to turn their abuse
but I am not a writer,
I’m just a girl who had a lot of bad luck you see,
writing was not my first resort.
I was going to live an ordinary life,
study medicine and live in a yellow house by the lake
with my loving husband and a dog.
That dream started to shatter when
I realized I was not the doctor
but the patient,
caught in a gown of literary compulsions,
View original post 133 more words