By Emily VanKoughnett
I don’t know how friendship is born. It seems to come like knowing. Like the steps of our house in the dark, familiar and unexpected.
I knew you for just three weeks
but i knew i would know you for a while
so I held your hand as you cried on the kitchen floor. Rivers have not wept so much but we tried to dam it up anyways with vodka and spiteful words. Things we know do not last, things that do not hold. The door still open and stammering.
Lately it seems there are things blooming in our ovaries and the folds of our brains that make us cry – unwanted and sickening. The linings of our uteruses blooming, growing unkempt and wild. Side effects that sneak in like whispers, on the backs of other things.
Us girls, we eat circular pills colored like candy necklaces. We plant metal in our arms and put wishbones between our thighs. We compare results and stories like regularly scheduled programming. Conversations for closed doors, the comfort of your best friend’s sheets.
My father has never seen a bloodied piece of toilet paper, but he used to wipe the blood from my knees.
Emily VanKoughnett is a writer from Minnesota who lives in Portland. Her piece ‘tectonics‘ can be found in Witch Haus PDX Issue #2. This piece is included in the newest zine Witch Haus PDX Issue #3.
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