Kate Ryan

I saw my old babysitter at a women’s wrestling cage match.

I would send some chocolates, but I’m not allowed anymore since they found the shiv in the birthday cake I sent you.

It was a tradition of theirs. When siblings Sue and Johnny went home to their mother’s for Christmas, they watched the 11 o’clock local news.

Like booster engines emptied of fuel, my limbs become disposable, useless tanks as the blood rushes from them.

“You are the naked girl on horse, yes?” he said, approaching her table from across the café patio.

Everyone wants to have the funny tweets because people equate them with wealth, power, and beauty. The problem is, we’re not all funny.

My tights are cutting me in half at the waist . . . just like a sausage in its casing.

Writing simply does for me what long walks do for small dogs; it makes me tired and happy.

My parents got the idea they’d send me to stay at my grandparents’ house in Florida for a week. I think my mother needed a week to herself.

For the record, I didn’t mean to be born so tall. I didn’t ask for bulky shoulders or a head that doesn’t fit most hats.