“receiving invitation” by Julia in her bed

Tuesday June 20, 2017
5 minutes
from an email

I’ve been bleeding for days and nobody knows why. 
Nobody knows why because nobody knows and I suppose it’s up to me.
I make the calls and the appointments, I pay the bills or I don’t.
This growing thing, this fleshy bump is getting me down.
Isn’t that ironic-If to you growing means up. It is ironic that to me growing means up.
My impulsive decisions are growing too. In.
When Sarah pierced my ears on the back of a potato I didn’t think they’d ever be anything but proof of my young nights.
There was blood then too, on the carpet.

“receiving invitation” by Sasha on her couch

Tuesday June 20, 2017
5 minutes
From an email

Mr. Bolton sang at the open mic with his two sons. My sister and I did, too, and we were better, at least that’s what people said. He taught Physics. I wasn’t any good at physics. My sister was, so sometimes I copied her work from six years prior. He hadn’t changed his lesson plans. I still feel guilty about that sometimes and then I remember how hard I worked on the things I actually cared about it and I let it go. The open mic’s happened a few times a year, and my sister and I would practise for the weeks leading up, choosing songs, sorting harmonies, layering instruments.

“That’s what I was thinking” by Sasha at her kitchen table

Monday June 19, 2017
5 minutes
Overheard on West Broadway

On the Saturday before Grade Nine was to start, in a new school, an hour and a half commute from my one house and an hour and forty three minute commute from my other house, I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror (at the former house). Something. Does. Not. Look. Right. My left eye is… swelling. Perhaps a less astute person would not notice anything (at least at this point), but I, I am beyond astute. I might as well have a magnifying glass.