Hollie Dugas
AND THESE ARE MY DAMAGES: a madness enough for the two of us. I hear emotions, not words, bruises curdling on the surface of others. Reality has squeezed itself from ordinary objects, from me, and how do you get the juice back inside a wild peach? I have acquired a taste for imagined things, returning home to deify old notes, arrange trinkets by their impossible meanings on an altar, exercising ceramic poise. I can’t stop counting the empty spaces since the last time we spoke. I wrap them like little barren reasons in a yellow handkerchief and offer them back to you.
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