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The last time I tripped over a rock and cut my hand, I didn’t cry. It hurt so bad I think I even laughed a little. Instead, the last time I cried was after reading a poem. Writing right now, I find it a bit absurd. But after sitting with a couple of silly words on a gloomy Wednesday afternoon, I found myself repeatedly running my eyes over Baudelaire’s “Correspondences,” forgetting each word as I read it.
Growing up, people would tell me I was (too) hyper and (too) excited, so I began to see myself as a sort of excessive personality. As the youngest of three, I learned a lot from my older sisters; from lessons on boys to old clothes, everything I know and own is a hand-me-down that I acquired through the art of anticipation. From my family’s semi-dysfunctionality, I quickly came to learn that “family” was something of a group of random people placed together by the hands of fate.
