aukatt

batches of badly folded letters from my grandmother's apartment, all tightly scrawled russian, smudged ink. the luna moth my brother caught when i was seven, its wings becoming a chartreuse stain on his palms. the mark of every song that has ever made me feel, each differently shaped and stitched together to form the patchwork of resilience that is my heart. sepia photographs, antiquated polaroids, with nothing written in the white spaces where stories of moments should be. narrow granada streets, their uneven cobblestones turned hazy with august's heavy heat; the familiar taste of tears etched into frown lines that i am too