Misfit
I knew from the start I’d never fit you. My crooked smile could never match your white-teeth family, portraits on the wall. Knew my chaotic and jumbled household scribbled out of bounds; wouldn’t fit your mold. I tried to cut my corners, suck in and squeeze myself tighter, hold my breath, my tongue, trim and slim, cram in the cracks and pray they wouldn’t notice I was off brand. Scrubbed myself shiny for their golden boy— wrote the lines on the back of my hand, showed up, drank the wine, regurgitated and bought into every lie, prayed my demons would settle back down, prayed my words were from the right verse, smiled through every condemnation and insinuation, and still could never be small enough.  
Letters
When I think of him, I think of midnight ramen, hats from New Orleans, standing on tree stumps with arms in the sky to get one more bar of service. I think of apples and dictionaries Paul Simon, Stephen King, Peter Pan pianos and saxophone cases dial-up, keyboards, and forgotten bedtimes. I think of his disembodied voice through the landline, lifeline singing to me alone in my room until I felt better again. I think of that night two decades ago with a kitchen knife to my chest I didn’t know who to call but he’s the one who answered. I never went back there, never wanted that memory, never apologized, never said what I hope he knew: Your words kept me alive, all my life.
nearly and never are the same
I was a mile away, an arm’s length away. Six feet away, social distanced away. A missed message and a lifetime of going to voicemail away. Nearly there but didn’t say stay, didn’t say closer was still too far away, didn’t say you can have my yesterday and my today, didn’t say I missed you and missed you every fucking day.
Emily Seals (she/her) is a technical editor and received her MS in technical communication from Rolla, MO. She is a socially anxious dog mom whose dog has more social engagements than she does. They live in Auburn, AL, with her wife and many houseplants.